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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


°/~- 


f  * 


t  ;  - 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE 


THE 


SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE 


OR 


THE    NEW    IDEAL 


A  NOVEL 


BY 

P.   GEEOME 


"  The  mind  of  this  country,  taught  to  aim  at  low  objects,  eats  upon  itself.  There  is 
no  work  for  any  but  the  decorous  and  complaisant.  Young  men  of  the  fairest  promise, 
who  begin  life  upon  our  shores,  inflated  by  the  northern  winds,  shined  upon  by  all 
the  stars  of  God,  Jind  the  earth  below  not  in  unison  with  these,— but  are  hindered 
from  action  by  the  disgust  which  the  principles  on  which  business  is  managed  inspire, 
and  turn  drudges,  or  die  of  disgust—some  of  them  suicides."— EMERSON. 


NEW  YORK 
BELFORD  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS 

18-22  EAST  18TH  STREET 
[Publishers  of  Belford's  Magazine] 


COPYRIGHT,  1890, 
BY  BELFORD  COMPANY. 


THE 

SHADOW   OF   THE   MILLIONAIKE. 


PAKT  I. 
NEW  ENGLAND. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

EXMOOE. 

THERE  are  towns  of  New  England  that  preserve  the  past ; 
they  lie  like  tranquil  eddies  in  the  rush  of  the  flood  of  the 
continent's  life;  they  are  remainders-over,  fast  dissolving 
survivals  of  a  by-gone  time  and  a  past  civilization.  New 
England,  which  conquered  the  South,  is  herself  submitting 
to  the  spell  of  the  new  spirit  whose  wings  she  unloosened. 

A  stranger  sauntering  up  the  long  main  street  of  Ex- 
moor,  beneath  the  solid  shade  of  the  maples  and  the  arch 
of  the  palm-like  elms,  is  affected  byt  the  peace  of  the  place 
and  the  severity  of  its  aspect.  He  breathes  an  alien  atmos 
phere,  which  clothes  the  town  like  a  garment.  A  certain 
lofty  modesty  and  grim  Puritan  beauty  are  manifest  every 
where.  Ambition  and  passionate  sins  have  no  place  in  this 


1703645 


6  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

sombre  soil;  ostentation  has  no  part  in  these  plain  houses, 
whose  fronts  remind  one  of  the  faces  of  Church  elders ; 
the  fury  of  living  casts  no  lurid  gleam  into  the  pale  flame 
of  these  provincial  existences. 

The  unfrequented  street^  wide,  grass-grown  to  the  rib 
bon  of  dust  in  its  middle;  the  heavy  shadows  of  the  north 
ern  trees;  the  houses'  pillared  fa9ades  which  front  the 
streets  with  classic  masks,  Corinthian  screens  set  before 
prosaic  comfort — in  all  these  features  which  make  up 
Exmoor's  countenance  is  a  mournful  and  moral  import,  a 
serious  beauty,  Miltonic  and  solemn,  like  the  melancholy 
of  a  psalm.  Behind  a  darkened  window  the  profile  line 
of  a  woman's  face  is  caught — a  dim  cameo,  whose  tracery 
is  all  spiritual  and  has,  I  know  not  what,  of  exaltation, 
steeped  as  it  were  in  reverie,  suffused  and  permeated  with 
religion.  Perhaps  a  timid  gaze  steals  through  the  narrow 
panes  upon  you,  furtive,  curious,  startled,  like  an  enclois- 
tered  nun's.  The  straggling  figure  which  meets  you  on 
the  wooden  sidewalks  throws  a  suspicious  regard  out  of 
misty  eyes,  as  a  lotus-eater  might  look  upon  some  bustling 
citizen  of  the  world. 

Winter  accentuates  these  effects,  bringing  out  the  tones 
rigidly.  Then  the 'trees  writhe  their  limbs  into  stiff  gro 
tesques,  as  if  frozen  at  an  instant  of  agony;  then  the  cold 
doubles  distance  to  the  exterior  world  of  activity  and  com 
merce,  and  thus  tightens  more  tensely  the  concentration 
of  each  household  upon  itself;  then  the  snow  pads  the 
footfalls  on  the  street;  then  the  mind  is  constrained  to  in 
ward  study,  the  morbid  probe  pries  the  conscience;  then 
Nature  ceases  her  distractions  and  the  soul  sinks  into  its 
own  deeps. 

To  the  American  of  this  fast  generation  what  of  interest 
is  there  in  Exmoor  ? — a  hill  village,  where  flashes  no  glint 
of  conflict  or  of  fashion, — "  where  nothing  goes  on  and 
the  inhabitants  are  dead !" 


TUB  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  7 

Remain  many  weeks  and  there  is  no  change. 

An  empty  street,  weather-worn  fa9ades,  drooping  elms, 
a  sad  tranquillity;  the  first  impression  abides.  It  is  the 
whole.  Verily,  the  town  is  a  Puritan  and  Protestant  mon 
astery. 

Yet  a  lump  from  the  quarry  of  this  homely  village  be 
tween  the  great  breasts  of  the  hills  yields  a  richer  return 
to  the  psychologist  or  the  student  of  subtleties  than  a 
mass  of  common  ambitions,  and  hatreds,  and  bargains,  and 
lusts,  wrested  from  a  city's  upheaval.  The  buried  men  of 
Exmoor,  for  whom  the  sense-world  is  drowned,  theologians 
and  litterateurs,  are  chameleons  of  mood.  Their  brains  are 
tissues  delicate  as  the  photographer's  plate;  their  souls  are 
voltaic  piles  of  aspiration ;  behind  their  quenched  counte 
nances  lurk  miracles  and  metamorphoses.  These  rapt  and 
morbid  women,  who  trail  like  ghosts  along  the  street,  sel 
dom  seen,  see  with  the  revealing  eyes  of  St.  John  of  Pat- 
mos.  Beside  them,  the  hauteur  of  a  rich  woman's  portrait 
wanes  into  stolidity. 

These  select  of  Exmoor  inherit  the  religious  posture  from 
five  generations  of  Congregational  divines,  while  isolation 
and  study  have  developed  in  them  the  intellectual  temper 
ament.  Chaste  sybarites  of  the  spirit,  exquisites  of  the 
soul;  such  is  the  final  phase  of  Pilgrim  stock,  leavened  and 
fermented  by  the  modern  yeast. 

These  professors  and  dilettanti,  these  pure  women, 
cradled  from  birth  in  innocence  and  bathed  in  the  culture 
of  electicism,  have  never  wandered  from  the  summits  of 
the  ideal;  agnostics  of  evil,  for  them  the  slagged  valleys  of 
the  world  do  not  exist;  objective  despairs  and  the  brutal 
struggle  for  bread  have  not  steeled  their  fibres.  And  that, 
perchance,  is  the  reason  that  no  original  strength  of  litera 
ture  or  philosophy  has  come  out  of  Exmoor — theirs  is  not 
the  Samson  honey  secreted  in  the  lion's  carcass.  They 
cultivate  letters,  but  they  produce  none.  Jugglers  of 


8  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

subtleties,  refinements  and  elaborate  conceits  consume  orig 
inality.  Yet  so  catholic  is  their  critical  culture  that  human 
thought  is  become  to  them  as  a  Capua  to  be  revelled  in. 

These  minds  are  drunk  on  Burgundy,  disdaining  the 
heavy  liquors,  the  gin  of  the  sordid  passions,  the  coarse 
ecstasies  of  the  solid  and  muscular  animal,  the  massive 
ambitions  of  the  able  or  the  blunt  sensations  of  average 
humanity.  They 'are  not  courageous  and  they  shrink  from 
the  world;  for  they  are  Platonists  and  not  Berserkers. 
The  odor  of  the  fight,  the  stench  of  the  battle,  the  crunch 
of  the  chariot-wheels  of  success  on  the  faces  of  the  failed 
steam  up  to  them  faintly  and  but  mantle  their  shoulders, 
leaving  their  heads  in  light,  as  the  summer's  mist  strands 
on  the  foot-hills,  while  above,  the  heights  soar  into  the 
blue.  And  if  a  reality,  through  mischance,  intrude  bodily, 
it  is  but  for  a  moment;  just  space  enough  to  introduce  an 
articulate  torture  between  the  calm  of  Hellenic  statues  and 
the  glory  of  the  Transfiguration,  and  so  make  complete  the 
Trinity  of  experience. 

Such  are  the  Brahmins  of  Exmoor.  There  remain  the 
many. 

Unless  intellect  single  out  a  man,  he  sinks  into  the 
vegetable  kingdom,  in  this  town.  Here  is  no  stir  of  com 
merce  or  of  gayety  to  blow  upon  his  stagnant  pool.  An  in- 
tenser  apathy  and  a  more  entire  emptiness  of  aim  alone 
distinguish  him  from  the  common  provincial.  The  pres 
ence  of  letters  in  his  town  has  reinforced  his  natural  leth 
argy;  for  they  set  up  a  standard  as  unattainable  as  absurd, 
so  it  seems  to  him ;  and  effort  is  deprived  of  logic  before 
this  enthroned  intellectual  distinction. 

About  the  stove  of  the  grocery-store,  squatted  on  barrels 
whose  contents  are  products  like  themselves,  the  idlers 
drawl,  gossip  and  turn  their  quids  with  lazy  tongue. 
The  weather  is  a  theme,  a  constant  wonder,  an  inspiration 
that  invokes  forecast.  The  trivialities  of  life  in  a  country 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  9 

town  absorb  what  wit  they  have.  Occasionally  the  advent 
of  some  Brahmin  customer  enlivens  the  mential  fog;  a 
laugh,  a  tilt  of  politics,  or  a  query  in  theology  is  exchanged 
over  the  purchase  of  tea  or  sugar. 

What  sluggish  ooze  slimes  the  veins  of  these  barrel- 
warmers  !  Through  nights  and  days  they  slide,  without  as 
piration,  and  without  its  consequence — pain.  But  who  shall 
despise  them?  Who  vaunts  as  their  superior?  Their 
practical  philosophy  is  negation,  and  towards  that  our  wis 
est  travel.  Are  they  not  tinctured  with  the  divinity  of 
India — nay,  are  they  not  a  sort  of  uriintellectual  Kabe- 
laisians,  these  loafers  and  time-consumers — these  garrulous 
plants  that  sit  in  their  flower-pots  and  note  the  climbing 
angle  of  the  sun-rays  through  the  years  of  many  seasons, 
who  are  undisturbed,  who  have  plain  desires,  who  have 
caged  happiness  ?  Only  the  fool  sneers  at  the  oyster. 

There  are  shores  where  drift  of  the  sea  strands;  there  are 
sheltered  nooks  in  which  broken  stuff  fastens.  There  are 
ships  that  stand  and  ships  that  fall  asunder.  There  are 
ocean  bottoms  where  the  vessels  of  iron  rust  with  wounds 
gaping  in  their  hides;  they  were  proud,  and  their  death 
dramatic  and  entire.  There  are  contemptible  affairs,  vain 
rafts  and  loose-built  scows  of  poor  men;  insignificance  lends 
such  an  escape,  and  so  they  shore  in  the  mud. 

There  is  a  third  class  in  Exmoor. 

Those  who  are  tired  out,  and  those  who  are  bereft,  those 
to  whom  peace  means  more  than  honor,  and  to  sleep  the 
serenest  heaven.  Exmoor  understands  them  and  they  di 
vine  her  peculiar  beauty.  It  might  be  written  above  the 
portals  of  this  town,  "Let  no  one  without  sorrow  or  its 
premonition  entire  here/'  One  wonders  at  the  number  of 
widows  and  the  men  graphic  with  defeat.  Those  with  gun- 
wounds  in  their  sides  gravitate  hitherwards.  Women  who 
slip  to  the  grave,  old  men  without  an  interest,  the  broken 
and  the  inert — these  leaven  the  town.  The  languid  tides 


10  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

of  Exmoor  float  silent  sorrows,  half-solaoed  disappoint 
ments,  profound  morbidities,  elusive  evils. 

Dreamers,  or  idlers,  or  those  who  watch  Time  as  a  friend — 
such  are  her  people.  A  cynic,  or  one  seared  with  sensation, 
would  call  it  "  stupid  and  deuced  slow."  But  a  seer  or  a 
poet  would  gaze  into  that  uniform  life  as  into  the  ever- 
standing  waters  of  the  middle  sea. 

This  is  Exmoor. 

At  bottom  a  stagnate  country  village,  platonized  by  the 
philosophic  and  literary  spirit  of  its  aristocracy  and  by  the 
presence  of  a  little  college,  its  contempt  of  fact  and  its 
worship  of  the  transcendentals  have  elevated  its  lassitude 
into  a  northern  "far  niente."  Here  emanates  a  subtle 
fluid  that  takes  the  zest  out  of  action  and  setherealizes  the 
soul,  that  snaps  the  animating  spring  and  refines  the  sub 
jectivity,  that  makes  a  man  a  mirror  and  breaks  the  handle 
of  his  hammer. 


CHAPTEE  II. 

"  THE  CLYDES." 

THE  March  evening  was  canopying  the  landscape  of  gaunt 
hills  in  a  not  unwelcome  darkness.  The  long  street  was 
deserted,  except  by  some  shuffling  figures  hurrying  to  escape 
the  sovereign  dreariness  of  aged  winter  snow  and  dense 
leaden  sky.  Every  minute  deepened  the  cold  vapors,  through 
which  objects  looked  as  if  plunged  in  clay-colored  water. 
The  hill  bulks  pressed  in  upon  the  town  with  their  bony 
knees.  Here  and  there  a  light  glimmered  wanly,  like  a 
drunkard's  eye;  but  for  the  most  part  the  growing  gloom 
invaded  the  windows  before  the  thrifty  tradition  of  Exmoor 
permitted  a  match  to  be  struck. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  11 

Julian  Clyde,  a  tutor  in  Exmoor  College,  was  walking 
with  quick  impatience,  a  stride  unusual  in  that  slow  town. 
He  had  spent  the  afternoon  (it  was  Saturday)  with  Mr. 
Keyes,  the  literary  critic. 

Along  the  silent  street  he  scudded ;  his  head  well  thrust 
forward,  his  long  coat  flapping  at  his  heels.  He  did  not 
like  this  weather;  indeed,  he  felt  he  would  like  to  beg  to 
differ  with  all  Exmoor  to-night. 

The  long  street  ascended  the  slope,  carrying  its  narrow 
road,  its  wide  wooden  sidewalks,  its  aisles  of  leafless 
maples  and  giant  elms,  straight  up  the  south  hill  on  which 
the  college  buildings  stood.  The  tutor  bent  his  back  as  the 
way  steepened,  but  forged  ahead  at  an  equal  speed.  In  his 
mood  he  was  glad  to  pound  the  old  hill  vigorously,  as  if  it 
were  a  trampled  enemy. 

Half  way  up  to  the  first  college  hall  is  a  square  stone 
house,  fendered  with  a  high  porch  and  beamy  Doric  pillars 
of  wood  supporting  the  projecting  lip  of  the  roof.  Trees 
veil  it  in,  as  a  silken  gauze  veils  a  woman;  but  as  her  eyes 
sparkle  with  the  sights  she  still  can  see,  so  the  windows  of 
the  house  look  down  vistas  out  over  Exmoor  and  north 
ward  along  the  extended  hill-summits  some  twenty  miles. 

The  tutor  entered  the  yard  through  the  hedge-opening. 
He  burst  along  the  path,  oblivious  of  the  signal-handker 
chief  waved  in  welcome  from  the  parlor  window.  Once 
within  the  hall  he  flung  his  overcoat  across  one  chair;  his 
fur  cap,  aimed  at  another,  fell  on  the  floor;  while  his  over 
shoes  were  kicked  off  with  indiscriminate  haste. 

He  made  for  the  parlor,  where  he  expected  to  find  light, 
fire  and  Mrs.  Lancaster.  Instead,  darkness,  panelled  with 
gray  where  the  windows  were,  and  a  few  pale  flickers  in  the 
grate  to  cast  vacillating  gleams  across  the  chimney-soot. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Why  can't  you  have  the 
lights  lit  ?  You  always  gloat  in  the  black;  you  ought  to 
have  been  a  Puritan,,  instead  of  their  descendant,"  he  said, 


12          THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

growling  privilegedly  to  the  indistinct  figure  seated  near  a 
window. 

"You  didn't  see  me  wave,  did  you,  Julian  ?" 

"Light  the  lamps  and  I'll  talk,  but  not  before.  One 
should  be  an  owl  to  live  a  winter  in  Exmoor,"  he  retorted. 

"The  Italian  is  uppermost  to-night,  isn't  it,  dear?"  she 
said,  giving  him  a  soft  pat  as  she  rose  to  do  his  bidding. 

The  mild  petroleum  light  suffused  the  room,  leaving  shad 
ows  to  exist.  It  fell  over  the  woman,  burnishing  the  bronze 
ropes  of  hair  that  crowned  the  tall  figure.  Mrs.  Lancaster 
turned  on  the  young  man  with  a  benediction-smile  which 
he  tossed  aside  with  a  gesture  of  the  head. 

She  came  towards  him.  Her  stateliness,  was  it  not  a 
little  stiff,  straightened  with  an  unconscious  pride,  a  pa 
trician  rigidity  that  bespoke  the  conversatism  of  respect 
ability  and  the  exclusiveness  of  fixed  habit  and  selected 
familiarities,  that  could  not  brook  a  non-classical  idea  ?  It 
was  all  in  her  carriage.  Are  not  these  pure  creatures  who 
are  pedestalled  on  Puritan  character  and  patrician  selection 
the  supreme  result  of  New  England  civilization  ?  They  pos 
sess  the  graciousness  of  the  queens  of  society,  but  they  have 
preserved  the  woman  ;  theirs  is  the  sanctity  of  saints  with 
out  the  prudery  that  tarnishes  holiness;  they  have  achieved 
the  effects  of  nobility  and  of  culture,  without  the  limita 
tions  of  the  one  or  the  toil-marks  of  the  other  :  in  a  word, 
they  are  the  consummate  flower  of  their  order.  They  have 
all  the  virtues,  and  what  they  lack  is  little  esteemed  by  their 
world ;  for  they  are  everything  but  passionate  and  witty  and 
unwise. 

"  Don't  you  know  you  will  wear  yourself  out  with  this 
continual  friction,  that  you  cannot  afford  to  be  always  pro 
testing  ?  The  world  stood  before  you  came  and  will  go  on 
after  you.  Let  it  wag  its  own  way,  then.  What  is  it, 
Julian  ?  Let  me  do  something  for  you." 

There  was  an  entreaty  in  her  eyes.     Her  sweet  face 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  13 

beneath  the  burnished  hair  rose  above  the  black  of  her 
mourning,  like  Love  from  a  grave.  The  young  fellow's 
quick  susceptibility  caught  the  effect,  the  fair  skin  of  the  neck 
within  the  soft  circle  of  ruching.  He  patted  her  check. 

"  How  good-looking  you  are  to-night,  ma  belle  tante  !" 
he  said. 

She  flushed  a  little  like  a  girl.  "  But  tell  me  the  trouble," 
she  persisted.  "Is  Exmoor  so  tiresome  ?  What  is  it?  Are 
there  some  disagreeables  connected  with  your  teaching  ?" 

"  What  makes  you  want  to  know  ?"  he  asked. 

He  was  surprised  at  her  concern.  Her  affection  had 
never  shown  any  practical  estimation  of  him  or  his  cir 
cumstance.  His  childhood  remembered  her  as  a  lovely 
beneficence  which  protected  him  and  taught  him  beautiful 
things — the  glory  of  a  winter  sunset,  the  sough  of  the  north 
wind  in  the  hemlocks;  but  she  had  in  no  sense  been  a 
consoler.  At  his  blunt  interrogation  she  looked  up  with 
wide,  uncomprehending  eyes,  half  in  astonishment  at  such 
a  question. 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  know,"  Julian  went  on,  "the 
true  inwardness  is  shortly  this  :  I  am  sick  of  Exmoor  and 
can't  stand  teaching  a  lot  of  freshmen  and  blockhead  boys 
much  longer.  I  want  to  get  out  and  take  a  dive  into 
the  real  world.  I  want  to  feel  the  actual  pulse  of  things." 
He  thrust  the  bare  statement  before  her  defiantly.  Con 
sternation  rose  into  her  face. 

"You  do  not  mean? — "  she  began. 

"  Yes  I  do,"  he  interrupted;  "  I  mean  it  exactly.  I  want 
to  cut  this  town.  I'm  tired  of  plugging  ideas  into  young 
numskulls.  I  am  desperately  weary  of  the  name  of  liter 
ature  and  all  it  implies,  its  critics,  its  dilettanti,  its  liter 
ary  women.  Exmoor  and  its  little  conventions,  its  small 
unswervable  dictates — I'm  going  to  shake  loose  from  its 
tyranny.  You  are  shocked,  of  course." 

Blasphemies   against   her  life-ideals !      Mrs.    Lancaster 


14  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

looked  at  her  nephew  in  a  little  horror.  She  had  never 
suspected  such  deep-seated  revolt. 

"But  you  would  not  forsake  books,  Julian?  You  can 
not  mean  to  desert  scholarship  ?"  she  gasped. 

' '  Scholarship  I"  he  cried.  "  Scholars  !  And  if  you 
mean  by  that  plodders  like  Doctor  Ponder,  American  edi 
tions  of  Faust's  Wagner,  or  even  such  men  as  Mr.  Keyes — 
no,  I  would  not  live  their  lives,  either  of  them.  Exmoor 
necessitates  one  or  the  other.  Laborer  or  dilettante,  the 
hod-heaver  of  learning  who  carries  mortar  for  other  men's 
bricks,  or  the  elegant  exquisite  who  prates  over  letters  and 
has  not  vital  passion  enough  to  live  what  he  praises,  or 
to  be  what  he  goes  into  lyrics  over — that  is  Exmoor's 
alternative. " 

Julian  spoke  the  rebellion  of  a  year  in  these  words. 

"You  are  so  unjust,  Julian,  so  unjust !"  protested  Mrs. 
Lancaster.  "  You  don't  present  the  possibilities  rightly. 
It  is  feasible  to  be  something  other  than  plodding  or  dil 
ettante,  and  you  know  it.  Can't  you  be  as  real,  as  you 
phrase  it,  in  Exmoor  as  anywhere?  Can't  there  be  real  lit 
erature  here?  Emerson,  I  am  sure,  had  no  more  in  Con 
cord  than  exists  just  here." 

Her  suggestion  provoked  him  info  rant  again. 

"  Real  literature,  or  any  living  actuality  come  out  of  this 
town  of  theology  and  connoisseurs!  Humph!  What  do 
we  know  of  the  needs  of  the  world  in  these  hills  ?  The 
professors  and  critics  of  Exmoor  treat  all  these  things  as 
mere  puppets  of  the  imagination,  delicate  and  airy  illu 
sions,  with  which  to  amuse  the  mind;  they  weave  dialectic 
puzzles  and  sketch  quaint  designs.  I,  for  one,  am  no 
longer  content  with  shreds  and  patches.  I  wish  to  move 
down  into  the  crowding  world  and  have  the  facts  of  existence 
hammer  me,  and  I  myself  push  men  and  forces  until  expe 
rience  reveals  life  and  what  it  is.  That  is  the  only  good 
in  the  world,  the  only  way  to  truth ;  the  other  bridges  to  it 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  15 

rest  on  sloth  and  ease  and  good  feeding.  That  is  the  only 
way  true  literature  is  born;  or  anything  else  true,  for  that 
matter." 

He  was  smoking  like  a  cannon  which  has  just  disgorged 
its  bolt.  Then  a  sense  of  emptiness  came  to  him  and  he 
burst  into  laughter  at  himself.  But  his  aunt  had  been  too 
roughly  dinted,  and  there  was  no  humor  in  the  thing  for 
her. 

"  But  your  prospects,  Julian,"  she  said,  "  and  your  posi 
tion  in  the  college — you  would  not  fling  them  to  the  winds! 
Not  every  young  man  of  twenty-three  holds  such  a  position. 
Here  you  are  known  for  your  father's  sake  and  your  own 
merits.  Your  friends  expect  so  much  of  your  future. 
Mr.  Keyes  is  so  fond  of  you;  he  told  me,  himself,  you  were 
the  one  young  man  he  cared  to  stand  literally  sponsor 
to.  You  are  not  material,  and  I  know  you  have  no  vulgar 
ambition  for  money.  Why  will  you  persist  in  vague  long 
ings  for  the  world,  where  other  talents  than  yours  are  rec 
ognized,  and  such  as  yours  are  overlooked  ?  Can  it  be  due 
to  your  Italian  heritage,  this  unequal  restlessness  ?" 

That  foreign  maternity  Mrs.  Lancaster  made  respon 
sible  for  every  discrepancy  in  Julian's  usually  well-ordered 
existence.  The  irregularity  crossed  her  New  England 
sense,  touched  even  her  instinct  for  rectitude.  An  Italian 
was  altogether  proper  in  painting  or  sculpture,  and  one 
should  revere  Dante;  but,  in  a  matter  of  birth,  to  have 
the  blood  of  those  dark  distrustful  southrons,  those  subtle 
Borgias,  and  those  heated  sons  of  licentiousness,  mixed  up 
with  one's  own  clear,  Puritan,  righteous  strain,  in  one's 
adopted  nephew  too  !  Things  were  right  and  good  in 
their  places  ;  but,  while  passions  .in  art  are  valuable,  they 
should  be  labelled  like  them  edicinal  poisons;  and  it  is  not 
conducive  tp  propriety  to  be  indiscriminate. 

Julian  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently  and  swept  his 
hand  out,  as  if  to  brush  aside  such  absurdities. 


16  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

"  No,  it  is  nothing  but  Exmoor  that  makes  me  want  to 
get  out.  I  don't  ask  for  the  things  she  can  give;  for  I 
think  them  factitious.  I  always  thought  Taine  hit  it  right 
in  his  comparison  between  Tennyson  and  DeMusset.  It 
is  pleasant  and  cultivated  to  be  railed  off  from  the  Philis 
tines,  but  to  unwrap  the  affectations  around  you  and  go 
down  into  the  ugly,  difficult  world  and  learn  its  lessons 
adequately,  regardless  of  consequences  to  one's  self,  and 
out  of  such  hard  apprenticeship  to  speak — that  is  a  task 
that  never  occurred  to  these  leisurely  spiritualists  of 
Exmoor." 

"  Oh/don't  talk  so,  don't  talk  so!  You  don't  know  what 
you  say!"  cried  Mrs.  Lancaster  in  a  wounded  tone. 

After  a  moment  she  turned  away.  "  I  must  go  and  see 
if  supper  is  getting  ready."  She  hesitated,  and  then  came 
back  to  him.  She  put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  She 
was  so  tall,  the  stately  woman,  that  she  looked  into  his 
eyes  on  almost  the  same  plane  with  them. 

"  My  poor  boy,  be  more  at  peace  with  yourself !  You  do 
not  know  that  the  world  you  think  will  help  you,  will 
only  strangle  you,  and  this  Exmoor  you  recoil  from  now, 
will  seem  a  blessed,  blessed  thing,  compared  with  the  real 
reality.  Those  men,  those  students  whom  you  do  not 
wish  to  imitate,  they  are  cynical  and  comfort-loving,  no 
doubt;  but  some  day  you  will  forget^their  superficial  faults 
and  the  hollowness  of  Exmoor,  in  contemplation  of  their 
unprejudiced  souls  and  of  her  peace  and  liberty.  For  you 
will  not  find  freedom,  nor  justice,  in  that  world  to  which 
you  yearn  to  go." 

After  this  long  speech  she  kissed  him  and  then  went  to 
her  kitchen. 

Bah !  thought  Julian,  it  was  merely  feminine  reluctance 
to  have  him  breast  circumstance. 

The  supper-bell  rang. 

<!n  the  dining-room  Professor  Clyde  sat  at  the  end  of  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  17 

supper-table.  He  looked  about  fifty.  He  had  a  white 
American  beard  and  loose  white  hair.  The  head  was  high 

o 

and  nobly  shaped,  after  the  manner  of  the  Plato  busts. 
The  features  were  regular  and  cold  in  repose,  but  contin 
ual  laughters  and  little  enthusiasms  over  trivial  matters 
lighted  up  the  face,  as  it  turned  to  Mrs.  Lancaster  or  to 
his  son. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  this  afternoon,  Julian  ?" 
asked  Professor  Clyde. 

"Reading  for  that  Tuesday  lecture,"  was  the  answer. 

"  What  is  the  subject  ?  Did  you  tell  me  ?  I  think  not; 
what  is  it  ?" 

"  Wilhelm  Meister." 

Supper,  its  illumination  and  social  contact,  mellowed 
the  young  man's  crustiness.  The  genial  table  found  an 
echo  of  impulsive  speech  in  him,  and  before  long  he  was 
talking  about  the  proposed  lecture  with  interest.  Professor 
Clyde  himself  was  always  at  his  best  at  this  hour,  when  the 
mind  forgot  to  rattle  in  the  scabbard  of  the  flesh.  The  sop 
thrown  the  stomach,  the  gleam  of  the  light  and  the  har 
mony  Mrs.  Lancaster  conspired  to  create  under  her  sway, 
unlocked  the  human  companionship  in  the  man  and  drew 
from  him  the  cream  of  his  mature  spirit,  the  old  wine  of 
his  wisdom,  the  nectar  of  his  happiest  mood. 

At  the  Clyde  supper-table  philosophy  and  criticism,  the 
overflow  of  their  lectures,  gave  the  conversation  a  stilted 
and  declamatory  style,  which  would  have  only  elicited  an 
"  Oh,  hell  £'  from  the  average,  unenthusiastic  materialism 
of  the  man  about  town. 

The  Professor  spoke  in  resonant  voice: 

"  Is  there  a  company  in  literature,  outside  of  Plato,  to 
which  any  author  introduces  us,  as  agreeable  as  that  of 
Lothario  and  his  friends  ?  I  shall  have  to  go  back  to  Soc 
rates  in  the  '  Phgedo '  to  find  their  prototype,  and  even 
then  the  Athenians  can  hardly  equal  them.  I  think  Goethe 


18  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

drew  in  '  Meister '  a  society  of  his  dreams,  an  archetype 
of  a  cultured  salon,  so  to  speak.  Lothario,  Jarno,  Therese, 
Natalia,  the  ever  present  influence  of  the  dead  uncle — these 
names  call  up  beautiful  and  versatile  personalities,  in 
formed  and  tolerant  minds,  Avhose  perception  matches 
their  intention,  and  whose  nobility  is  beaconed  by  clear  in 
telligence.  They  seem  incarnate  sweetness  and  light. 
Goethe  fills  their  lives  with  a  high  endeavor  and  a  soft 
radiance." 

"Yes,"  Julian  answered,  "  as  you  say,  it  was  an  ideal. 
And  if  it  was  an  ideal,  even  to  Goethe,  in  Weimar,  it's  a 
regular  seventh-heaven  houri  for  us,  with  our  shop  practi 
cality  and  that  hard  utilitarian  sense,  which  despises  pure 
intellect  for  its  own  sake." 

"  But  theivyou  know,  Julian,  we  have  the  same  struggle. 
And  it  is  the  fight,  not  the  attainment,  that  is  worth  while. 
Better  than  truth  is  the  struggle  after  truth.  That's 
Lessing." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  Stoic  like  you.  No  miserable  formula 
of  sour-grape  flavor,  even  if  concocted  by  Lessing,  shall 
cheat  me,"  replied  the  younger  man,  almost  sullenly. 
Mrs.  Lancaster  here  interposed  with  the  remark  that 
Goethe  was  self-sufficient ;  that  he  spent  his  life  scouring 
up  to  lustre  his  own  marble  soul,  as  a  cook  burnishes  her 
copper  pot.  She  expressed  the  idea  partly  because,  like 
every  woman,  she  believed  it  true,  and  partly  for  the  pleas 
ure  "her  men  "would  enjoy  in  combating  the  assertion. 
She  possessed  the  virtuous  feeling  of  a  Roman  aedile  in 
providing  an  arena  for  gladiators,  eager  to  fight.  The  two 
men  rushed  at  the  hated  idea,  full  tilt,  like  two  unre 
strained  boys.  What  a  comedy  for  the  never-surprised, 
always-contained,  serenely  inane  people  in  such  a  scene  ! 

"  That's  a  miserable  legend,"  Julian  cried,  "  which  has 
gathered  about  Goethe,  as  the  legend  Thiers  created  gath 
ered  about  Napoleon.  The  poet  was  no  more  an  egoist 


,          THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  19 

than  the  Emperor  was  not  a  cynical  Machiavelli  on  horse 
back.  Because  he  was  strong  and  did  not  cry  out  under 
the  tortures  of  life  like  weaker  men,  he  is  removed  from 
the  humanness  that  is  human  because  it  is  weak." 

Professor  Clyde  chimed  in,  "'Meister'  to  my  mind  does 
not  present  the  real  Goethe.  The  book  only  shadows  forth 
his  practical  solution  of  the  equation  of  life.  Faust  is  the 
real  and  innermost  man.  In  him  is  seen  the  battle  of  the 
spirit,  eaten  with  negations  and  stuffed  with  ennui,  all  de 
sirous,  but  a  Hamlet  at  bottom  ;  a  sad  man  and  a  weary 
one.  Yet  he  buried  Self,  and  by  sheer  force  drove  his 
life  into  conformity  with  the  intellectual  conclusions  of 
Meister ;  despite  doubt  and  defeat,  to  conquer,  to  attain, 
and  to  advance.  It  is  as  if  he  had  said  to  himself,  '  This 
illusive  Maia  of  existence,  this  wheel  of  fire  whose  spokes 
are  impossible  yearnings,  and  whose  tire  drops  tears,  is,  in 
truth,  the  actual  world  of  my  deepest  consciousness  ;  yet  I 
shall  dare  to  do,  despite  waverings  and  despairs  ;  and  over 
against  agonies  and  bootless  cries,  I  shall  set  up  "Iphi- 
genia"and  "Tasso,"  like  statues  of  pure  beauty  in  the 
teeth  of  chaos.'  How  else  shall  we  explain  that  this  Phid- 
ian  chiseller  of  marble  tragedies  can  create  Mephistopheles, 
and  make  Faust  dream  and  speak  ?  He  unconsciously 
helped  to  form  the  legend  which  makes  him  a  god,  when, 
in  reality,  he  was  one  of  the  great,  unhappy  souls,  one  who 
fought  where  most  faint,  and,  in  the  dimness,  groped  for 
the  knees  of  Truth." 

Julian  caught  up  the  theme  in  turn.  "If  ever  there 
was  a  good  fight  fought,  he  fought  it.  Because  he  smiled 
down  the  sentimentalists  and  sought  truth  and  not  marty- 
dom ;  because  there  is  no  self-pitying  in  his  case,  and,  be 
cause  he  did  attain,  and  the  pathetic  disparity  between  most 
men's  reach  and  grasp  has  no  title  in  him, — signifies  that 
his  struggle  was  not  the  less  but  the  greater.  Of  course  he 
doesn't  give  his  admirers  a  chance  to  'play  the  Magdalen 


20  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

• 

and  break  ointment  over  him;  no  tear-floods  at  his  funeral, 
as  for  Burns  or  De  Musset ;  but  he  is  not  therefore  the 
less  human,  only  stronger  than  the  rest.  Strength  is  not 
inevitably  coupled  with  egoism." 

Such  were  the  table-talks  of  the  Clydes.  The  dogmatic 
temper  of  the  New  England  inheritance  of  theology  ap 
peared  in  these  discussions,  together  with  the  long  sen 
tences  and  positivism  of  the  lecture-room  ;  but  they  aimed 
high,  and  helped  the  young  man  to  "hitch  his  wagon  to  a 
star." 

After  a  while,  when  calm  had  come,  Mrs.  Lancaster 
asked,  "  What  day  do  you  expect  your  millionaire  ?" 

"  Mr.  Gay  will  probably  be  here  on  Wednesday.  I  expect 
a  letter  from  him  to-morrow.  I  only  hope  we  shall  be  suc 
cessful  in  gaining  his  support  for  the  college — he  gives  so 
largely  in  charities,"  answered  Professor  Clyde. 

Mr.  Gay  was  a  millionaire  of  New  York  and  a  devout 
Congregationalist.  It  was  expected  of  him  to  stiffen  the 
financial  backing  of  the  institution  in  Exmoor,  for  his  re 
ligion's  sake. 

"  Do  you  go  out  to-night  ?"  asked  Professor  Clyde  of  his 
son. 

"  Yes  ;  a  whist-party  at  Jane  Halding's." 

"  What  an  original  that  young  girl  is  !" 

"  We  must  show  her  to  Mr.  Gay/'  suggested  Mrs.  Lan 
caster. 

"  Her  independence  won't  consider  his  plutocracy,  you 
know,"  said  Julian. 

"  She  and  Mrs.  Ballard  are  the  two  trump  cards  Exmoor 
always  plays  on  strangers,"  laughed  Mrs.  Lancaster. 

"  Mr.  Gay,  I  imagine,  always  plays  and  is  never  played 
on,"  Professor  Clyde  said,  meaning  to  express  a  dark  sig 
nificance. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  21 

CHAPTER  III. 

A   SUNDAY   IN   EXMOOR. 

SUNDAY  in  Exmoor!  As  if  the  spirit  of  her  Puritan 
people  had  a  sensible  emanation,  the  atmosphere  of  Sabbath 
wrapt  the  old  town  in  a  certain  added  tranquillity  that  the 
heart  felt.  A  moral  ether  arose  from  her  houses,  as  from 
a  censer  a  fragrance  is  wafted. 

But,  under  this  respectable  and  orthodox  cloak,  certain 
strange  existences  were  lived  in  Exmoor,  certain  unsus 
pected  Sabbath  moods  were  indulged.  In  this  town  of 
secluded  women  and  hermited  men,  some  few  idiosyncra 
sies  were  developed,  anomalies  that  nourished  unseen  ;  as 
under  the  strewn  leaves  certain  vines  run  and  bloom. 
Puritans,  theologians,  bigoted  Calvinists,  narrowly  intense 
religionists,  served  but  to  mask  the  emancipation  of  a  spirit 
like  the  critic  Keyes's.  Theii;  dark  shadows,  their  sombre 
decay,  gave  him  nourishment,  and  be  drew  from  their  dense 
protection  a  sap  to  animate  the  veins  of  absolutely  different 
offspring.  Their  morbidities,  their  gloom,  their  Puritan 
passions  were  a  sort  of  forest  muck  that  clothed  his  spirit 
with  heat  and  strength  ;  whence  he  put  forth  pagan  ideas 
and  untrammelled  criticisms  of  literature,  of  religion,  of 
men  and  the  past.  So  it  was  that  out  of  Exmoor  came  the 
clearest  intellectual  light,  the  most  impartial  mind,  that 
New  England  knew  at  that  time. 

Upon  the  Sunday  of  Exmoor's  majority  this  peculiar 
nature  had  foisted  a  new  feast  of  the  passover  ;  for  the  day 
in  its  peace  lent  him  an  exquisite  intellectual  sense,  and  he 
was  aware  that  strange  beauties  and  hidden  griefs,  grand 
eurs  unknown  and  novel  eulightenings  of  understanding 
broke  in  upon  him  with  the  advent  of  the  Sabbath,  as  light 


22  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

pours  in  upon  eyeballs  heretofore  blind.  So  he  gathered 
together  his  week's  research  for  the  Sunday,  and  scanned 
the  mass  with  the  concentrated  lamp  the  day  gave  him. 
Thus  he  was  enabled  to  draw  hair-lines,  and  weigh  gold 
and  dross  to  the  minutest  particle.  He  called  Sunday 
his  "Aladdin's  Lamp."  Or,  if  he  had  no  definite  work,  he 
would  devote  the  day  to  a  Lucullean  banquet  of  the  intel 
lect,  musing  upon  many  literatures  and  counting  over  a 
hundred  gleaming  wonders  from  the  manifold  coffers  of  his 
learning.  He  knew  Sanscrit  and  Persian  ;  he  mumbled 
Greek  like  German  ;  there  was  hardly  a  language  under  the 
sun,  whose  speakers  had  had  wit  enough  to  fashion  a  liter 
ature,  that  he  had  not  mastered,  or  "  dabbled  in,"  as  he 
himself  expressed  it. 

Verily,  a  subtle  spirit — so  various,  so  profuse,  so  univer 
sal  ;  entirely  critical,  never  original,  known  only  to  itself 
and  careless  of  the  world.  Its  definition  is  a  vast  experi 
ence — and  a  barren  one,  some  bore  of  a  moralist  will  insist. 
But  Keyes  nursed  his  intellect  as  a  miser  hoards  his  gold  ; 
its  panorama  of  pictures  never  sated  his  fine  curiosity,  and 
existence  for  him  meant  an  infinity  of  mind-amusement, 
as  a  jockey's  heaven  is  an  eternity  of  exciting  heats.  He 
had  no  exclusive  passion  within  his  one  passion  for  litera 
ture  in  the  broadest  sense  ;  he  was  too  impartial  for  at 
tachments.  Life  was  to  him  literally  an  endless  Louvre, 
and  himself  a  perception  turned  loose  in  an  immense  pic 
ture-gallery. 

This  was  the  man  who  had  been,  in  large  ways,  an  in 
tellectual  father  to  Julian  Clyde  ;  for  the  elder  Clyde  had 
stood  aloof  from  the  guidance  of  his  son's  life,  and  had  been 
content  to  open  the  doors  of  his  library,  and  occasionally  to 
talk  on  some  intellectual  subject.  Some  note  in  Julian's 
character  or  some  dangling  sun-ray  in  his  Venetian  hair, 
perchance,  had  early  attracted  the  critic,  who  became  the 
boy's  godfather,  in  a  sense.  When  Julian  was  four  years 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  23 

old,  Mr.  Keyes  was  wont  to  climb  the  hill  after  him,  from 
whence  he  was  carried  off  to  the  critic's  study,  or  propped 
up  on  two  dictionaries  at  Mrs.  Keyes's  ceremonial  dinner. 
One  of  the  critic's  conceits  at  that  time  was  to  insist  that 
the  soul  of  Walter  Scott's  Marjorie  Fleming  had  reappeared 
in  his  stout-legged,  small  friend. 

Julian  had  passed  his  usual  Sunday;  a  Sunday  grown  out 
of  his  own  tastes  and  Exmoor  influence.  It  was  a  day  in 
doors,  over  books,  a  dip  in  Goethe,  another  in  Bossuet,  a 
third  in  Leopardi;  a  tasting  of  poetry,  of  metaphysics,  of 
history — the  leisure  day  of  a  man  of  letters.  He  always 
enjoyed  it;  but  this  last  year  a  physical  protest  ran  through 
it  all,  its  dilettanteism  and  epicurean  intellectuality — a  call 
for  activity  and  something  done ;  something  besides  dawd 
ling  over  six  or  seven  authors  in  four  or  five  tongues  of  a 
Sunday  afternoon. 

He  sat  in  the  library,  and  the  deepening  gloom  en- 
swathed  him  in  thickening  folds.  He  was  restless  and  re 
sentful.  He  heard  the  sound  of  the  church-bell,  rising  to 
him  from  the  valley,  after  filling  its  basin  as  water  fills  a 
cup.  It  summoned  to  the  Sunday-evening  prayer-meeting 
held  in  the  basement  of  the  old  Congregational  church. 
He  determined  to  go  ;  it  was  better  than  tossing  in  the 
trough  of  his  discontent  and  ennui,  without  steam  enough 
to  ride  steady.  Besides,  Margaret  would  be  there  and  he 
could  go  home  with  her. 

The  church  was  traditional  in  Exmoor,  a  bodily  projec 
tion  of  that  dreary  Puritan  past  into  Exmoor's  advanced 
thought,  a  grim  dogma  of  gray  stone  set  in  the  midst  of 
her  sweetness  and  light,  even  as  the  theology  she  adhered 
to  and  taught  x  amid  her  literary  and  philosophical  catholic 
ity,  appeared  like  some  Middle  Age  donjon  frozen  fast  with 
in  the  elegant  magnificence  of  Eeriaissance  porticoes  and 
columns.  The  church  was  built  of  gray  stone,  a  great,  un- 


24  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

speaking,  square  mass  that  loomed  amid  the  trees  above  the 
low  roofs  of  Exmoor. 

Do  you  wish  to  see  the  worship  your  New  England 
grandfathers  poured  out  ?  Go,  then,  into  this  Exmoor 
church,  and  you  will  behold  that  departed  faith  intact, 
unbroken  by  incursions  of  liturgy  or  free-thinking — in 
Exmoor  it  is  to  be  found,  alongside  with  Prof.  Clyde  and 
his  veiled  Hegelianism,  and  cheek  by  jowl  with  Alexander 
Keyes  and  his  disciples.  Strange  that  the  footholds  for 
freest  thought  in  America  should  be  under  the  shadow  of 
an  intolerant  Calvinism,  that  intellect  shuns  the  new  cen-  - 
tres  which  have  no  superstitions! 

Within,  a  low-ceiled  room,  men  and  women  in  close 
ranks,  stifled  air,  gaseous  with  human  breath  through 
which  the  oil-lamps  shone  like  lights  in  a  London  fog — a 
fit  tabernacle  in  which  to  display  the  morbidities  of  north 
ern  imagination,  the  sombre  and  grotesque  dreams  of  a 
Calvinism,  unenlightened  and  unsweetened  by  any  ray  of 
tolerant  intellectuality. 

A  man  rises  to  pray ;  he  is  the  embodiment  of  this  old 
Exmoor.  Watch  him.  A  dark,  spare  man  with  abrupt 
body  and  great  black  head,  with  dark  eyes  and  rugged  ex 
posed  chin  ;  he  prays  in  a  monotonously  impassioned  voice 
— that  is  Doctor  Ponder.  He  holds  the  chair  of  Eastern 
languages  in  Exmoor  College.  The  gaunt  bone  of  his 
farm  inheritance  stands  in  rocky  relief  after  the  waste  of 
twenty  years  of  excessive  study.  Doctor  Ponder  delivered  a 
long  prayer,  old-fashioned  and  denunciatory,  which  im 
pressed  Julian  he  was  not  in  salvation's  boat.  The  assump 
tion  of  Doctor  Ponder  that  his  creed  was  the  discerning  wand 
to  separate  the  sheep  and  the  goats  irritated  the  young  man. 
Nature,  men,  books,  the  ways  of  knowledge,  were  as  open 
to  him  as  to  this  man,  or  to  any  of  the  old  dogmatizers  of 
the  past.  It  struck  Julian  as  an  insufferable  piece  of  con 
ceit  to  make  a  formula  for  humanity  out  of  one's  own 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  25 

bounded  experience.  This  orthodoxy  was  another  of  the 
limitations  Exmoor  would  fain  impose  on  the  free  and  rev 
erent  spirit. 

After  the  meeting  was  over  he  joined  Margaret,  and  the 
two  walked  homeward  together. 

She  spoke  of  the  devout  spirit  manifested  in  the  meet 
ing.  The  "  beautiful  prayer  of  Doctor  Ponder's  "  won  her 
peculiar  veneration.  This  increased  Julian's  irritation — 
this  praise  and  respect  of  hers  for  men  whom  he  considered 
inferiors  in  some  intellectual  sense,  this  unquestioning  ac 
ceptation  of  an  iron  creed  that  seemed  to  him  not  over- 
modern.  She  never  understood  his  vague  dreams,  his 
grandiose  aspirations.  His  ideals  and  his  theories  were  ec 
centricities  of  his  youth  to  her.  Her  calm  gray  eyes  decom 
posed  existence  into  the  simple  elements  of  father  and 
child,  duty  and  prayer,  and  a  cheerful  serenity  ;  she  never 
comprehended  that  mysteries  and  terrible  possibilities 
ranged  round  commonplace  life,  as  around  the  clear  disk  of 
Homer's  world  fathomless  mists  and  unshapen  forms  cir 
cled  and  watched.  Intellect  in  youth  is  always  more  or 
less  given  to  empty  high  soundings  of 'speech,  to  theatricals 
and  follies — it  is  measuring  itself  ;  but  to  Margaret  they 
were  absurd. 

The  two  reached  her  mother's  house — that  Mrs.  Ballard, 
the  widow,  the  Clydes  had  called  one  of  the  trump  cards  of 
Exmoor. 

"  Come  in,  Julian,  it's  very  early,"  she  said,  as  he  opened 
the  gate. 

Within  the  hall,  she  directed  :  "  There,  sit  on  the  stairs, 
while  I  go  find  mamma  and  light  the  lamps  a  little." 

The  Ballard  house  was  always  in  gloom,  except  where 
Margaret  herself  was.  The  girl  passed  on  through  the 
dark  doorways,  until  she  found  the  dining-room.  She 
closed  the  door  behind  her  and  spoke  into  the  dark. 

" I  am  here,  mamma." 


26  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

No  answer.  She  groped  her  way  until  her  hands  tonchfid 
a  figure  ;  she  wound  her  young  arms  about  it. 

"  Why  do  you  sit  here  in  the  dark,  mamma  ?  You 
ought  to  have  a  light."  There  was  no  response.  After  a 
pause  Margaret  went  on.  "Come  out  into  the  hall;  do 
come  !  Julian's  there,  and  it'll  be  so  nice  and  cozy.  You 
two  like  to  talk.  So  come  on.  He  says  you  understand 
him.  Come,  I  won't  leave  you  to  the  mopes  here." 

"  No,  no  !  I  should  only  sour  the  wine.  I'll  stay  here 
where  I'm  best  appreciated— by  myself,"  answered  the 
widow,  at  last.  She  probably  smiled  in  a  grim  fashion  in 
the  darkness  there. 

But  Margaret  persisted,  she  would  take  no  refusal.  Fi 
nally  Mrs.  Ballard  succumbed,  and  Julian  beheld  her  stalk 
ing  down  upon  him,  Margaret  in  the  rear,  cutting  off  re 
treat. 

"Here's  mamma,  Julian,"  the  girl  announced.  "She 
was  deep  in  the  blues,  so  I  brought  her  out  to  talk  to  you. 
You  two  can  talk  wisdom  together,  while  I'll  sit  at  your 
feet  and  humbly  imbibe." 

She  put  her  mother  in  a  big  chair,  she  said  the  stairs 
were  good  enough  for  Julian's  longitude,  and  finally  she 
seated  herself  on  a  stool  at  her  mother's  feet. 

"  Now  go  ahead,  you  two,"  she  proclaimed,  with  the  air 
of  a  herald  opening  the  lists.  "I'm  out.  An  ordinary 
mortal  cannot  hope  to  do  anything  but  subside  when  De 
Stae'l  and  Goethe  discourse  together." 

Her  laugh  stung  Julian  more  than  he  was  willing  to  con 
fess  to  himself.  The  mockery  of  mediocrity  is  so  easily 
available  against  a  real  or  supposed  superiority. 

Julian  and  the  mother  exchanged  an  unconscious  glance 
of  sympathy,  which  shut  out  the  daughter  as  an  alien. 
These  two  were  drawn  to  each  other.  There  was  a  world 
beside  the  good  and  the  practical,  in  which  this  sombre, 
rebellious,  brilliant  woman  lived  apart  from  her  family, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  27 

from  her  town;  with  exceptions,  in  a  few  instances,  of 
those,  like  Professor  Clyde  and  Mr.  Keyes,  who  understood 
her. 

Presently  Mrs.  Ballard  asked  abruptly,  "  Mr.  Gay  comes 
this  week?-" 

Julian  replied  that  his  father  so  understood.  "Wednes 
day,  I  believe.  He  is  on  his  way  to  Boston,  and  his  private 
secretary  comes  with  him." 

"  I  suppose  we  shall  see  a  grand  siege  and  regular  as 
sault,  according  to  most  approved  methods,  on  him  and 
his  charity-money,"  said  Mrs.  Ballard  with  a  bitter  hu 
mor. 

"  If  Mr.  Gay  is  so  rich,  it  will  do  him  good  to  be  per 
suaded  into  giving  some  for  a  good  purpose.  His  money 
couldn't  be  put  to  a  better  use/'  Margaret  broke  in,  a  re 
proach  in  her  tone. 

Again  the  two  exchanged  a  sympathetic  look  accompa 
nied  this  time  by  a  little  depreciatory  smile. 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  said  Julian,  dryly. 

"  So  the  faculty  think,  Margaret.  Whatever  they  divert 
for  the  college  will  be  saved  from  evil  practices,"  replied 
Mrs.  Ballard,  mimicking  the  solemnity  of  Doctor  Ponder 
when  that  divine  laid  down  that  so  and  such  was  the  Lord's 
will.  She  changed  her  voice  back  into  the  scornful  ring: 
"  There  will  be  a  very  magnificent  scene,  genuflections, 
and  flatteries  huge  as  Chinese  bouquets.  How  President 
Pompes  and  Doctor  Ponder  will  prate  and  pray  !  the  Pres 
ident  with  unction  and  suave  compliments,  the  Doctor  with 
earnest  vehemence,  in  the  same  way  he  exhorts  sinners  to 
repentance." 

"  A  regular  Moliere  alive.  I  can  see  it,  and  Thackeray 
ought  to  be  here  himself  to  draw  it.  Bah!  it'll  be  disgust 
ing,"  cried  the  youth. 

Margaret  felt  she  must  protest  against  such  loose  speech, 
but  the  two  would  enjoy  themselves.  Can  a  person  of  cyn- 


28  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

ical  habit  find  a  greater  pleasure  than  to  secure  a  listener 
who  comprehends  in  a  flash  through  intelligence,  not  by 
grace  of  a  bitter  baptism, — one  who  takes  such  talk  as  a 
mere  elegance,  and  returns  his  debt  in  the  equal  coin  of 
banter? 

Mrs.  Ballard  went  on  in  her  own  inimitable  way,  pictur 
ing  the  bait  the  faculty  would  swish  invitingly  before  this 
enormous  whale  from  New  York;  how  they  would  make 
ridiculous  blunders,  and  heave  all  together  in  abortive  ef 
forts  to  land  him;  how  finally  he  would  shake  his  big  tail 
good-naturedly,  and  leave  them  a  few  good  things  out  of 
pure  amiability,  before  he  made  off.  She  sent  stinging  in 
nuendoes  out  from  her  mouth,  flings  at  those  brooding 
thinkers  and  their  boorishuess  as  over  against  the  keen 
decisiveness  and  man-of-the-world  adaptability  which  such 
a  successful  New  Yorker  as  Mr.  Gay  would  undoubtedly 
possess.  It  was  an  amusing  caricature,  such  a  one  as  the 
widow  in  her  revolt,  and  Julian  in  his  discontent,  had  often 
summoned  up  between  them. 

"Julian/'  she  said  abruptly,  "when  Mr.  Gay  comes  here, 
why  don't  you  make  him  like  you  ?  Such  men  take  fancies 
and  have  favorites.  You  might  just  as  well  be  his  favorite 
as  some  other  man.  Here's  your  chance.  He  can  make  or 
break  a  man,  if  he  chooses — though,  I  suppose,  he  chooses 
more  frequently  to  break  than  otherwise.  Besides,  Exmoor's 
no  place  for  you.  It's  too  small  and  the  real  forces  of  the 
age  are  not  here." 

New  York  and  her  business  men  had  always  been  one  of 
Mrs.  Ballard's  hobbies.  She  admired  their  clean  vigor, 
their  swift  intelligence,  their  style,  and  their  verve.  Our 
attractions  are  dictated  by  our  wants;  so  this  moody,  way 
ward,  intense  spirit  entertained  an  admiration  for  those 
superficial,  lively,  smart  mechanisms.  If  her  own  son  had 
been  only  born  with  capacity,  as  was  Julian,  she  would  have 


THE  SHADOW-  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  29 

desired  him  to  be  able,  rich,  influential,  generous,  all  alive, 
like  successful  New  Yorkers. 

As  long  as  Mrs.  Ballard  talked  before  her  audience — for 
she  hardly  conversed — she  maintained  the  magnetic  mien 
she  wore  for  others.  But,  after  bidding  good-night,  when 
she  re-entered  her  dining-room,  the  mood  of  mastery  fell 
from  her,  like  an  outer  wrap.  Her  muscles  grew  lax ;  her 
nerves  sank  unbraced;  in  the  dim  light  her  figure  seemed 
unshapen,  to  undulate;  the  tense  cheeks  fell  into  flabbiness, 
— just  as  if  the  bow-string  which  made  rigid  the  bow  were 
suddenly  cut.  She  cast  herself  into  a  chair  abjectly; 
she  sat  with  staring  eyes  and  brooded  stupidly.  Since  her 
husband's  death  two  years  ago,  this  was  her  constant  habit, 
when  alone — a  lethargy  not  concealed  from  her  family,  and 
only  retired  from  when  the  world  intruded. 

Left  alone,  Margaret  and  Julian  toyed  with  the  hours. 
The  evening  of  a  day  of  peace,  a  beautiful  girl  with  a  Pris- 
cilla  face  and  a  haughty  purity! — Julian  was  led  to  his  con 
fession.  We  all  confess  to  some  pedestalled  creature  when 
we  are  twenty-three,  and  ten  years  after  think  what  geese 
we  were— do  we  not  ?  Ah !  there  are  worse  follies  than 
sentimentalism.  He  gave  utterance  to  some  of  those  per 
sonal  doubts  of  ability  and  opportunity  which  haunt  young 
men.  Margaret  reassured  him  with  a  sweet,  womanly  sym 
pathy.  Here  was  a  heart  a  strong  man  could  find  rest  in, 
between  the  tremendous  battles  of  a  career — all  of  it  given 
to  sustain  a  youth  with  his  womanish  fancies  and  his  callow 
misunderstandings  of  life.  But  when  he  half  suggested 
those  deeper  conflicts  between  a  man's  success  and  his  ideals, 
between  his  appetites  and  his  intellectual  wants,  the  girl 
had  no  patience.  The  ideas  of  Julian  were  too  unsubstantial, 
too  much  in  the  air.  Where  did  he  get  such  funny  notions, 
such  absurd  conceptions,  anyway  ? 

"  Why  do  you  make  a  mountain  of  the  future  ?  It's  easy 
enough.  If  you  go  ahead  and  do  your  plain  duty,  you 


30  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

ought  to  be  content.  I'm  sure  if  I  were  a  man  I  could  find 
a  place  in  this  world,  I  could  earn  my  living  in  the  practical 
world,  as  a  lawyer  or  a  business  man,  easily  enough." 

This  was  her  answer  to  his  imaginations!  The  path  was 
straight  to  her,  lighthoused  by  duty  and  common-sense. 
The  noble,  pale  face  flushed  with  an  energy  to  do  her  work 
well,  whatever  it  was.  And  let  justice  be  done  her.  While 
the  young  man  loafed  through  an  easy  life,  and  made  him 
self  cross  with  vain  and  silly  fancies,  this  girl,  this  lovely 
Puritan,  this  high-spirited  and  true  woman,  bore  the  brunt 
of  housekeeping  and  bore  her  mother  on  her  shoulders 
through  the  widow's  attacks  of  stupor  and  morbid  misery. 
Surely  her  ringing  words  contrasted  well  with  the  wavering 
hypotheses  and  all-embracing  speculations  of  the  youthful 
egotist !  Yet  her  practical  solution  to  all  things  in  existence 
seemed  insufficient  and  contemptible  to  the  youth.  Passions, 
desires,  renunciations,  an  infinity  of  emotions  and  imperative 
needs  clashed  together  and  dashed  out  a  dust  that  filled  his 
eyes. 

"  Yes/'  he  cried  scornfully,  "  you  would  be  a  success  if 
you  were  a  man.  You  know  what  you  want,  which  is  not 
much.  You  understand  that  to  succeed  needs  so  many 
blows  a  minute,  and  nothing  in  yourself  would  hinder  you 
delivering  them  with  precision.  You  don't  dream  nor 
desire  too  much." 

He  stopped  a  moment,  then  went  on  with  added  vehe 
mence,  "  You  are  content  with  the  ordinaries  and  have 
faith  in  God.  Life  is  neither  an  emptiness  nor  a  Sphinx 
to  you;  simply  an  army  contract  of  groceries  and  dry-goods 
— production  and  consumption,  like  a  problem  in  mathe 
matics,  solution  foreordained  and  exact." 

"  So  much  rant,  because  I  said  I  could  earn  my  living  !" 
answered  Margaret,  meekly.  Julian  was  such  a  dear  non 
sensical  boy !  Then  she  went  on,  in  the  tone  she  used  to 
her  Sunday-school  class:  "Of  course  I  could.  There  is 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  31 

nothing  so  very  dreadful  about  it.  You  imagine  too  much. 
That  is  a  bad  habit.  When  you  know  more  of  it,  it  will 
simplify  itself.  Why  do  you  torture  yourself  with  these 
vain  fancies  ?  You  had  much  better  strike  home,  and  do 
your  plain  duty." 

Gospel  of  common-sense,  which  pricks  the  non-reliable 
balloon  of  the  idealist ;  whose  supporting  gas  is  faith  in 
his  superiority  over  average  humanity  ! 

"Utility  and  prosaic  duty,  they're  all  you  see,"  he  blurted 
out.  "  As  for  me,  I  haven't  submitted  yet.  There  are  other 
considerations.  I  don't  expect  you  to  understand.  I'm 
going.  Good-night." 

She  parted  from  him  wistfully,  as  if  her  heart  were  willing 
to  make  amends  for  the  failure  of  her  head.  But  he  would 
have  none  of  it.  Her  marble  regularity  of  beauty,  expres 
sive  of  a  constant  attitude  of  mind,  exasperated  him. 

Once  out,  the  cool  air  lowered  his  heat.  The  snow  shone 
like  silver  under  the  diamond  cold  stars.  The  outlines  of 
houses  and  fences  were  clear  and  clean-cut.  Every  twig  of 
the  trees  showed  entire,  in  silhouette  against  the  frosty 
heavens.  Julian  walked  rapidly  home,  crunching  the  dry 
snow.  As  his  perturbation  subsided,  his  mind  gained  a 
steady  lucidity.  In  the  firmament  the  solar  scheme  lay 
mapped  out  before  him.  He  saw  the  planets  wandering 
through  space;  and  light,  born  of  the  impact  of  the  sun's 
influence  upon  the  fluid  particles  sheathing  their  spheres, 
escaped  from  them,  as  from  electric  globes  of  glass.  Space 
stretched  on  and  on,  and  deepened  into  space,  and  a  million 
darts  of  flame  flung  through  it,  as  gold  slides  through  mer 
cury.  The  dry  air  invigorated  his  brain,  and  his  thought 
passed  like  lightning  about  every  object,  illuminating  every 
hidden  recess,  and  reproducing  exactly  every  detail.  He 
wondered  at  its  swiftness. 

The  houses  passed  were  seen  through,  as  if  their  walls 
were  glass.  He  comprehended  all  the  life  within  their  sides. 


32  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

In  an  instant  he  understood  it  all.  Actions  of  his  neigh 
bors,  heretofore  inexplicable,  shone  translucent.  He  went 
under  a  Pharisee's  house,  whose  God  was  a  mere  infinite 
exaggeration  of  himself.  Julian  saw  his  holiness  in  bed, 
praying  and  self-congratulatory.  He  passed  beneath  the 
windows  of  a  girl  who  had  entered  the  portals  of  old-maiden 
hood,  and  her  mortification  and  bitterness  seemed  natural 
to  him,  the  direct  and  fatal  consequences  of  causes  he  di 
vined.  Next  door  dwelt  a  young  man  and  his  lately  mar 
ried  wife.  He  had  known  the  bride  when  she  was  on  suf 
ferance  in  society;  he  had  seen  her  take  snubs  with  meek 
ness,  and  pocket  trivial  insults.  He  understood  her  and 
her  exultation  in  marrying  a  rich  man;  and  the  chagrin  of 
her  former  patrons  was  sweet  in  his  nostrils,  just  as  if  he 
were  in  her  place.  Thus  a  hundred  relations  of  life  in  a 
country  village  arose  in  turn,  and  were  understood. 

This  unusual  divination  possessed  him  with  a  sad  earnest 
ness.  Life's  variety  and  pleasure  broke  up  before  its  sure 
glances.  Yet  it  contained  a  victory  of  its  own,  and  with 
its  disenchantment  was  locked  a  sense  of  power  and  supe 
riority.  For  the  time  he  felt  content.  It  was  enough  to 
imagine  and  discern,  and  he  did  not  care  for  objective  satis 
factions.  He  decomposed  ambition  into  its  phenomena, 
and  possession  into  its  instincts.  Applause  was  as  tinsel  to 
him,  and  acquirement  as  so  much  dead  matter. 

A  light  gleamed  across  his  path.  He  stopped  and  con 
sidered.  He  looked  up  at  the  great  house  of  Mr.  Keyes 
and  the  one  window  in  the  wing  whose  illumination  glistened 
on  the  snow  crystals  at  his  feet.  Then  he  turned  in  and 
rapped  upon  the  side  door,  which  opened  into  the  critic's 
study.  A  deep  voice  summoned  a  resonant  "Come  in." 

The  room  Julian  entered  faced  the  street,  and  together 
with  an  adjoining  room  of  e^qual  dimensions,  the  two  con 
necting  by  an  arch,  occupied  the  whole  north  wing  of  the 
house.  The  ceiling  was  gridironed  with  oak  beams,  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  33 

interstices  between  set  with  square  blocks  of  stucco  stained 
deep  red.  Black-walnut  cases,  handsomely  carven,  filled 
every  inch  of  space,  half-way  up.  On  their  tops,  against  the 
stained  walls,  rested  a  multitude  of  treasures;  rare  bronzes 
and  exquisite  bric-a-brac,  fans,  fragments  of  famous  marbles 
from  renowned  quarries  and  old  fanes,  Roman  lamps, 
Trojan  obuli,  Athenian  coins,  Middle  Age  crucifixes.  A 
great  flat  desk  stood  in  the  room's  centre;  near  it,  a  watery- 
green  iron  safe  with  its  leaves  thrown  open,  half  displaying 
manuscripts.  Close  by  was  a  shelf  of  books  bound  in  yel 
lowed  or  dingy  brown  parchment.  This  was  that  famous  col 
lection,  some  sixty  volumes,  originals,  of  monkish  writings, 
which  Harvard  University  desired,  and  over  which  Mr. 
Keyes  was  wont  to  run  his  index-finger  carefully,  and  to 
say  to  visitors  with  a  wistful  half-glance,  in  the  voice  of  the 
melancholy  Jaques  of  "As  You  Like  It," — "This  is  all  my 
life,  all  my  life."  It  was  usually  heavy  artillery  on  the 
ladies.  Plaster  casts  of  the  Apollo  Belvidere  and  the  Venus 
di  Milo  were  set  on  simple  brackets;  the  Sistine  Madonna 
hung  from  the  wall;  a  Flanders  clock  hummed  just  beneath 
the  gold  chain  of  the  Order  of  the  Golden  "Fleece.  An 
ivory  statuette  of  Ariadne  on  the  beast  of  Bacchus,  capitalled 
a  green  marble  plinth.  Beneath  this  lavish  display  of 
curiosities  and  antiques  were  a  simple  carpet,  somewhat 
worn,  large  and  substantial  chairs,  a  plain  and  rather  mea 
grely  furnished  lounge — the  wealth  strewn  about  these 
walls  was  for  the  eye  and  the  mind.  No  pamperings  here. 
The  critic  stood  in  the  midst.  He  had  a  red  skull-cap  on 
his  head,  and  he  wore  a  silk  robe  lined  with  fur,  like  the 
one  in  the  pictures  of  Henry  the  Eighth.  His  feet  were 
slippered,  and  his  thin  ankles  crept  out  from  his  curtailed 
trousers  before  plunging  into  his  leathered  extremities.  He 
looked  like  Faust  in  the  study-scene.  He  knew  it.  Yet 
he  had  much  ground  for  vanity;  for  his  was  a  real  distinc 
tion.  The  profile  was  of  that  Tennysouian  type  found 


34  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

among  aestheticians  alone.  The  skin  was  an  Italian  brown, 
that  had  a  glow  underneath  its  aged  dryness.  The  eyes 
were  full  and  clear,  like  a  deer's,  and  luminous  as  with  an 
unceasing  transport.  Few  heads  have  the  beauty  of  this 
man's,  and  yet  it  was  a  beauty  devoid  of  any  sensuous  charm. 
All  its  early  physical  glow  had  charred  in  the  spiritual 
furnace. 

Mr.  Keyes  stroked  his  long  beard  and  eyed  Julian  askance. 
In  one  hand  he  held  a  volume  of  Shakespeare,  his  thumb 
thrust  in  the  leaves  for  a  bookmark.  "Sit  down,"  the 
critic  began,  in  his  high-tragedy  voice,  "  sit  down.  I  am 
glad  you  are  come.  I  was  just  reading  before  my  final  re 
tirement." 

He  had  erratic  modes  of  living.  Ordinarily  he  retired  at 
six  to  rise  at  ten  and  read  or  study  for  two  hours,  or  as  long 
as  he  pleased,  before  second  sleep.  He  maintained  mid 
night  to  be  the  " Delectable  Mountains"  for  thought. 

Julian  sunk  into  a  chair,  after  throwing  open  his  coat. 
The  Faust  remained  standing  in  his  effective  posture. 

"  I  just  came  in  for  a  moment,  and  I  don't  mean  to  detain 
you  long.  I  hope  I  haven't  disturbed  you  seriously.  I  was 
coming  from  the  Ballarcls,  and  saw  your  light/'  said  Julian, 
hurriedly. 

"Humph!  Come  from  the  Medeia,  eh !  Why  aren't  you 
content  to  take  your  Euripides  at  home  ?  Want  it  alive,  I 
suppose.  Well,  she  was  grumbling  as  of  yore,  wasn't  she?" 
ejaculated  Keyes  in  short  snatches. 

At  bottom  the  critic  admired  the  gloomy  woman.  These 
masterful  women  magnetize  men  of  his  tremulous  tempera 
ment.  But  he  gave  her  superficial  scorn  because  she  never 
flattered  him  and  always  disdained  his  public  readings  from 
the  poets.  And  she  too,  if  she  had  been  his  wife,  would 
have  pedestalled  and  perhaps  worshipped  him  ;  as  it  was,  he 
had  surpassed  her  husband  too  completely.  It  is  awkward 
for  an  aspiring  professor  of  literature,  as  her  husband  had 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  35 

been,  to  be  overtopped  by  a  resident  citizen  of  wide  repu 
tation  and  altogether  too  loose  views. 

"  Bah !  Julian,  boy,  you  are  too  young  for  love,  and  that 
Margaret  is  a  cold  creature — no  genial  currents.  She's  so 
unhesitatingly  pure.  Pooh!  she  lacks  color,"  the  critic 
muttered. 

He  did  not  half  like  Julian's  friendship  with  the  daughter 
of  that  "  Medeia-woman." 

"  I  am  glad  you  came  in,"  he  went  on.  "  I  was  reading 
Hamlet  aloud  to  myself,  and  I  felt  as  if  an  audience  would 
fit  things.  One  needs  a  definite  point  towards  which  to 
direct  one's  energy.  You  would  like  to  hear  me?" 

He  shut  the  book  nervously  on  his  fingers  and  glanced  at 
Julian  with  that  appealing  look  women  and  literary  men 
use  to  beg  sympathy  with.  It  is  charming  in  women ;  why 
should  it  disgust  when  a  delicately  poised  nature  that  basks  in 
approval,  as  the  flowers  in  sun,  yields  to  impulse  and  looks 
it  ?  Julian  smiled  assent.  He  always  felt  a  little  super 
cilious  on  these  occasions,  and  despised  his  friend's  weak 
ness  covertly,  like  all  that  brute  world  which  licks  a  con 
queror's  boots,  but  never  was  merciful  to  its  saviours  and 
its  children. 

Mr.  Keyes  needed  no  more.  He  read  the  grave-scene  in 
Hamlet,  the  soliloquy  of  Eichard  of  Gloucester,  some  rav 
ings  of  Lear,  the  Eoman  fighter's  death  and  Egypt's  royal 
leave-taking,  the  frenzy  of  Constance  in  King  John.  At 
little  intervals  he  looked  at  Julian  to  catch  his  eye  of  ap 
preciation,  who  felt  compelled  to  evidence  his  pleasure. 
The  compulsion  grated. 

As  the  critic  read,  Julian  turned  upon  him  that  intense 
light  of  penetration  which  had  been  his  since  he  left  the 
Ballards'.  The  recognized  critic  of  literature,  the  elegant 
scholar  and  dogmatic  asserter  of  the  spiritual,  under  the 
mellow  glow  of  the  yellow  light,  his  eager  revealing  face 
flashing  over  Shakespeare,  came  apart  before  Julian,  who 


36  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

separated  the  flesh  from  the  bone,  the  pretended  from  the 
real,  as  with  the  nitric  acid  of  analysis.  This  passion  over  an 
author  was  half  simulated,  kindled  from  vanity  born  from 
the  spectators  presence — a  flash  from  flint  and  steel  struck 
together,  rather  than  the  reflection  of  an  immanent  flame. 
Keyes  had  worn  this  affectation  of  heat  so  long  that  he 
became  associated  with  it.  It  was  analogous  to  the  red 
skull-cap  he  always  wore.  Indeed,  his  voice  habitually  as 
sumed  a  tragic  pitch,  as,  they  say,  was  the  case  with  Mrs. 
Siddons.  Julian  felt,  rather  than  saw,  the  dark  semicircle 
of  dirt  underneath  the  critic's  finger-nails.  The  dandruff 
in  his  hair  seemed  a  long  accumulation.  The  young  man 
was  repulsed  ;  he  shrunk  from  the  physical  Keyes,  as  from 
an  "unclean"  one.  Keyes  had  always  seemed  somewhat 
unhuman  ;  but  never  with  this  present  emphasis. 

The  inordinate  vanity  of  a  man  of  genius,  who  admires 
his  own  moods  and  idiosyncrasies  ;  the  unhappy  temper  of 
a  too  sensitive  spirit ;  the  enormous  waste  of  labor  over 
literary  curiosities  and  fantastic  conceits  which  the  man 
had  expended— all  these  came  up  to  Julian,  while  Keyes 
read.  Julian  marked  what  a  sieve  was  the  critic's  soul. 
After  all  Keyes  seemed  to  him  no  better  than  a  dilettante, 
an  elegant  player  with  Art  and  its  sacraments.  He  re 
membered  a  remark  of  his  father's  that  Americans  never 
devote  themselves  to  pure  Art  as  do  foreigners,  nor  as  they 
themselves  do  to  business.  At  the  moment,  robust  utili 
tarian  motives  that  were  honest  and  strove  seriously, 
seemed  preferable  to  this  side-show  rocketing,  this  appre 
ciation  and  attempt  of  Art  without  its  renunciation  of  van 
ity,  of  ease  and  self-gratulation. 

At  an  hour's  end  Julian  expressed  fervid  appreciation. 
Then  he  stepped  thankfully  into  the  night. 

He  paused  on  the  slope  up  to  his  father's  house  and 
looked  backwards.  The  pure  night  curved  over  the  vil 
lage,  which  stood  gray  in  the  bluish  light  reflected  from 


THE  SHADOW  Off  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  37 

the  snow.  What  an  evening !  Exmoor  prayer-meeting, 
Margaret,  Mrs.  Ballard,  the  critic  Keyes — all  quarters  of  the 
soul.  Two  strong  disgusts  filled  him  with  nauseating 
fumes — disgust  at  utilitarian  duty,  the  common-sensed, 
pietistic  solution  of  life ;  but  deeper,  perhaps,  disgust  at 
the  unreality  of  dilettanteism,  the  affectations  of  comfort 
able  culture. 

These  disgusts  were  not  generated  in  the  crucible  of  Ne 
gation.  He  did  not  deny  God  and  Beauty.  He  had  not 
despaired  like  Faust  and  become  a  utilitarian,  a  builder  of 
dikes  and  a  helper  in  the  common  ways  and  needs.  It 
was  simply  that  his  ideal  was  an  unflecked  marble  ;  life  was 
to  him  too  supreme,  too  pregnant  with  meaning  ;  culture, 
truth,  the  infinite,  too  serious,  too  crowded  with  import — 
that  anything  short  of  courageous  effort  and  whole-hearted 
endeavor  could  answer.  He  glanced  at  the  snow-laden 
roofs  of  the  town  between  the  blanketed  heights.  All  of 
life  that  he  had  yet  felt,  its  passions,  its  loves,  its  strain 
ings,  its  ideals,  lay  within  that  little  space  between  the 
hills. 

And  he  felt  it  inadequate. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

CHILDBED  OF  TWO  ZONES. 

THIS  point  of  creative  energy  we  know  as  Julian  Clyde  ; 
how  came  its  concentration  into  being  ?  The  chords, 
gathered  from  the  four  corners  of  the  infinite  and  twisted 
into  a  knot,  which  serves  for  this  human  soul,  as  for  every 
fragment  of  God,  which  we  call  a  humanity,  are  twined 


38  THE  SHADOW  Of  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

into  the  entrails  of  creation,  and  we  can  only  grope  back 
along  this  length  a  beggarly  inch.  Yet  that  little  distance 
may  serve  to  render  to  us  the  direction,  as  two  points  in  an 
eternal  line  dictate  its  trend.  So  if  we  set  out  the  father 
and  the  mother  of  this  puny  ambitious  pinch  of  wit,  we 
shall  be  able  to  equate  his  birth  with  his  education  and 
thence  deduce  a  result. 

For  a  hundred  years  the  Clydes  of  Exmoor  had  existed, 
generated,  and  duelled  with  nature  in  that  hard,  stale,  but 
not  unprofitable  New  England — which,  in  the  mellow  gloom 
of  the  minster  mind  of  Hawthorne,  has  assumed  a  figure 
not  all  unlovely.  A  succession  of  lives,  crowded  with  sor 
did  works,  flat  with  ennui  as  the  prairies  with  loose  grass; 
to  be  defined  as  continuous  effort,  stiffened  into  moral  and 
perhaps  heroic  proportions  by  a  repressive  and  manly  piety 
— such  were  the  chronicles  of  the  Clydes  from  father  to 
son.  Oh  !  the  colorless  kaleidoscope  of  the  old  Yankee 
days,  until  death  came  in  somejiarsh,  Protestant  way  and 
substituted  annihilation  for  vacuity!  Chilly  dawns  and 
their  gray  forlornness ;  the  chores  doggedly  done  ;  the 
thin  horses  fed  and  harnessed  in  the  cellar  of  the  great  barn, 
manure  in  heaps,  pools  of  frozen  water  yellow  on  the 
earthen  floor ;  the  lugubrious  breakfasts,  where  each  sat 
silent  and  filled  up  ;  the  naked  house,  lived  in  only  in  the 
rear,  utterly  without  the  warmth  of  human  geniality  ;  dead 
evenings  of  yawns  and  prayers  ;  those  ghoul  Sundays  when 
a  dogmatic  challenge  was  the  minister's  invocation  and  an 
argumentative  combat  his  sermon,  when  the  afternoons 
trailed  dreariness — father  in  drones  before  the  kitchen  fire, 
and  the  overworked  mother,  querulous  and  sallow,  in  the 
angular  chair,  on  her  precise  knees  her  Bible,  whence  she 
drank  the  fierce  national  poetry  of  the  Old  Testament,  and 
extracted  a  bitter  comfort  to  buoy  her  through  a  week's 
drudgery ;  thereby  preserving  in  the  otherwise  complete 
ugliness  of  her  life,  by  this  acrid  flame  of  a  revengeful  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  39 

sectarian  Calvinism,  the  one  point  of  non-utilitarian 
thought,  the  one  glint  of  a  poetic  emotion.  Oh,  existence 
of  the  rugged  past,  from  such  strenuous  loins  were  the  best 
in  America  born  ! 

Based  upon  such  near  ancestry,  the  miracle  of  American 
material  progress  explains  itself.  What  system  was  ever 
devised  so  calculated  to  produce  toilers  ?  Under  such  a 
regime  elegance  and  art  sink,  and  energy,  restrained  by  the 
austere  ethics  from  frittering  its  strength  in  the  amiabil 
ities,  concentrates  into  power  and  crystallizes  into  tremen 
dous  acts.  Men,  born  of  this  society,  toil  to  drown  time, 
and  endure  for  love  of  hardihood.  Muscle  strained  tense, 
will  riding  down  the  ranks  of  opposition  as  Sheridan  rode 
down  infantry,  trampling  and  compelling  nature — these 
are  sensations  potent  and  ponderous,  so  virile  that  a  manly 
brute  may  feel  them.  The  predetermined  outcome  of 
such  a  civilization  is  a  nation  built  and  buttressed  in  half  a 
century,  a  continent  sprung  from  the  wilderness,  Atlantis- 
like  ;  wealth  massed  into  magnificent  utilities,  a  so-called 
civil  war  which  in  reality  was  the  surplus  force  of  New 
England  and  her  western  colonies  striking  down  an  uncon 
genial  and  obtrusive  community. 

In  1840  a  Clyde  was  sent  to  college,  the  first  of  his  race 
— a  long,  lank,  trailing  Yankee  boy  with  blue  eyes  and 
neutral  strawy  hair  ;  a  face  mild  and  inoffensive,  yet  in  it 
a  potential  development,  as  if  an  under-countenance  lay 
within  the  provincial  mask. 

In  the  years  of  college,  the  underneath  emerged.  The 
tall,  thin,  dignified  figure  that  came  out  of  Dartmouth,  and 
the  face  fixed  in  reverence  and  a  certain  undefined  strength 
which  had  there  been  born  into  it,  was  changed,  as  the 
form  and  features  of  Moses  were  transformed  in  his  desert 
isolation  before  his  return  to  populous  Egypt.  And  yet 
the  new  spirit  was  identical  with  that  of  the  country  boy 
who  entered  college;  for  the  hinge  of  his  nature  was  shaped 


40  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

upon  his  heritage,  and  these  years  had  but  extended  its 
range. 

When  Hiram  Clyde  went  up  to  college,  'the  German 
thought- wave  was  smiting  the  coasts  of  the  world.  With 
the  same  intensity  of  belief  his  mother  lent  to  David  and 
John  Knox,  the  son,  sustained  by  the  ethical  gravitation 
of  his  New  England  birth,  turned  to  Fichte  and  Schelliug, 
and  the  new  gospel  of  idealism.  This  indicated  no  molec 
ular  change  in  the  Clyde  fibre.  The  same  face  that  his 
fathers  directed  to  the  old  gods  was  here  set  towards  the 
new  dawn,  and  to  the  novel  formulas  of  existence  from  over 
seas  the  young  man  carried  the  treasures  of  the  persistence, 
the  faith  and  the  exaltation  of  orthodox  Puritan  New  Eng 
land. 

The  parents  were  possessed  of  Enoch  Arden's  purpose 
that  their  only  son  might  tread  in  life  a  loftier  plane  than 
theirs — a  holy  instinct,  distinctly  modern  and  democratic. 
Hiram  Clyde  wrested  the  honors  of  his  class, — one  of  those 
stalwart  Yankee  peasants  who  once  in  a  college  generation 
stride  past  the  studious-lineaged.  His  father  shared  in  the 
joy  of  his  triumph — the  mother  had  fallen  without  this  glory; 
her  sun  gone  down  in  the  accustomed  dreariness.  They 
both  desired  Hiram  to  enter  the  ministry;  for  the  pulpit 
was  to  them  the  veritable  caster  on  the  footstool  of  God. 
When  Hiram  denied  his  father's  wish,  he  felt  it  a  blessing 
his  mother  was  no  longer  there  with  the  infinite  pathos  of 
beholding  her  son  averse  to  what  to  her  was  highest — the 
pathos  of  ignorance,  whose  love  slights  its  superstition. 
But  Hiram  had  the  cup  of  knowledge — of  ethical  specula 
tion,  to  his  lips,  and  with  his  long,  thin,  sprawling  Yankee 
fingers  he  clung  to  his  goblet  of  life.  He  secured  a  scholar 
ship  and  stayed  in  college. 

In  this  outgrowth  of  agricultural  Yankeedom  had  been 
casketed  a  remarkable  mind,  and  from  his  practical  an 
cestry  he  had  drawn  all  their  religious  temper  as  well  as 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  41 

the  instinctive  psychologic  habit  of  Puritans  and  north 
erners.  So  he  came  to  the  barriers  of  manhood  a  half 
thinker,  and  a  half  dreamer  of  inward  things,  who  found 
in  speculative  ethics  his  native  air.  The  old  conduct-sense 
of  his  race,  the  profound  instinct  to  formulate  a  moral 
code,  so  English  and  so  Puritan,  these  governed  him.  Put 
the  man  in  the  great  century  of  Scotch  Protestantism,  and 
with  his  youth  in  his  veins  he  could  have  looked  into  the 
lovely  eyes  of  Mary  and  denounced  her  lightness  and  French 
poetry  as  accursed  before  his  stern  abstraction  of  Jehovah. 
Place  him  in  Germany  and  see  him  an  enthusiast  and  an 
idealist,  a  devotee  of  some  grand  philosophic  spirit,  one  of 
those  famous  bricks  of  pedantry,  whose  wall  blocks  in  every 
magnificent  mouth  of  truth — a  dogmatist  and  confined,  if 
you  will;  but  with  a  well  of  belief  and  devotion  in  his  cen 
tral  nature,  like  a  water-spring  in  a  waste  lot.  Fate  set 
him  in  New  England  and  his  manifold  destiny  was  a 
dreamer's,  in  a  country  where,  unless  coupled  with  genius, 
dreams  are  put  by  as  stuff.  His  one  possible  lot  was  the 
pedagogue's,  and  his  estimation  with  the  world — a  man 
who  drags,  a  contribution  to  inertia. 

But  in  1845  his  father  died,  and  left  his  son  a  fortune 
of  fifty  thousand  dollars.  Thus  at  twenty-one,  a  year  out 
of  college,  Hiram  Clyde  experienced  that  death  is  the  great 
mathematician  who  solves  the  squaring  of  the  circle.  He 
was  free  to  dispose  of  his  life  as  he  pleased.  He  went  to  the 
land  that  drew  him,  Germany. 

His  bereavement  had  reinforced  his  ethical  purpose.  His 
parents,  Puritans  and  religious  rhapsodists,  had  never  over 
stepped  religious  emotion,  nor  considered  that  it  had  appli 
cation  in  the  practical  world  in  which  they  had  toiled,  and 
saved,  and  been  mean,  to  the  tune  of  a  fifty-thousand-dollar 
accumulation.  So  the  son  was  never  moved  into  any  object 
ive  philanthropy.  He  dwelt  in  his  tower  and  scanned  the 
heavens  for  the  face  of  God,  with  no  thought  of  the  suffering 


42  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

nests  of  wickedness  at  his  feet.  In  a  manner  there  was  no 
renunciation  for  him  as  yet ;  he  simply  acted  out  his  nature 
in  seeking  truth,  as  any  common  man  obeys  his  inner  law 
in  horse-trades,  or  money-changing,  in  sumptuous  banquet 
ing,  or  attendance  on  society. 

For  two  years  Hiram  Clyde  haunted  Jena  and  Berlin, 
his  spirit  magnetized  by  those  two  towns  where  his 
philosophical  master  had  most  suffered,  where  he  had 
taught  and  been  tortured,  where  he  had  striven  on,  doughty 
and  true;  the  bravest,  as  Goethe  pronounced  him,  preserv 
ing  through  all  the  awful  mysteries  and  sombre  subtleties 
of  a  mighty  intellect's  speculation  the  peasant's  sense  of 
duty,  the  Germanic  passion  for  righteousness.  At  the  feet 
of  Fichte  and  where  he  once  had  trod,  the  emancipated 
New  Englander  found  his  happiness  ;  here  he  slumbered 
on  in  that  modern  monastery  of  thought,  a  German  univer 
sity  ;  here  the  world  waned  for  him  and  he  stood  under 
the  immanent  shadows  of  God,  Creation,  Truth.  Thus,  as 
in  the  New  England  college,  he  again  sunk  into  a  groove  and 
promised  to' slide  easily  down  its  hollow  to  that  end  which 
was  to  him  a  yearned-for  revelation.  But  Fate  jostled  him 
out  with  deft  finger-touch,  and  tempted  him  over  the  Alps 
with  a  fellow-philosopher.  He  went  first  to  Venice  and  got 
no  further. 

Venice,  rotting  there  on  the  Adriatic,  like  some  gorgeous 
fruit  over-ripe,  the  glory  of  your  garments  stained  with 
rusts  of  time  and  hard  handling  of  lascivious  conquerors — 
we  all  come  to  you,  and  the  least  of  us  feel  !  Your  yellowed 
marbles  like  the  face  of  a  waning  and  bilious  belle,  your 
cracking  palaces  like  the  faded  age  of  a  man  great  in  his 
youth,  your  vanishing  colors,  your  decaying  bridges,  your 
more  and  more  of  tawdry  modern  flaunt — they  invade  the 
heart;  and  Allemans  from  the  North  have  wept  senten- 
tiously,  in  wretcjied  taste,  over  your  dimmed  fa9ades  ;  even 
that  prig-ethical  art-critic  who  wants  to  see  some  Christ- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  43 

woe-begoneness  in  the  nudest  magnificence  of  Titian's  flesh 
— even  he,  in  English  such  as  no  man  now  alive  can  stut 
ter,  even  Kuskin,  0  Queen  and  Temple  of  color,  has  exalted 
you  peerless,  without  a  pretender  to  the  insidious  wistful- 
ness  of  your  charm !  And  those  Scythians  from  the  North 
east,  barbarians  at  bottom,  melancholy  Tartars,  feel  some 
thing  in  you  as  of  a  wildly  delicious  and  utterly  sad  dream 
of  the  senses  let  down  into  dimension  and  struck  suddenly 
real.  And  we,  the  Americans,  the  commercial  barbarians, 
shallow  parrots  of  civilization,  how  we  strain  to  mosaic  our 
prosaics  with  detached  memories  from  your  canals  and  your 
houses,  0  City  of  a  past  wealth  and  a  dead  splendor,  the 
pearl  of  the  middle  age  in  the  flaccid  oyster  of  modern  ex 
istence,  town  of  aristocratic  voluptuousness  and  immoral 
art  and  doubtful  character,  with  your  pictures,  of  magnifi 
cent  worthless  princes  and  divine  soulless  courtesans  !  0 
City  fallen  away  and  gradually  getting  bizarre  and  flashy — 
Paris  sets  us  on  fire  and  Rome  awes  us  by  her  years  of  mas 
sive  past,  but  you  feed  us  the  lotus-fruit  of  your  decay  ! 

Was  it  that  the  physical  plant  was  ripe  for  flowering  in 
this  year,  the  callow  American's  twenty-third  on  earth, 
so  that  the  golden  juices  of  youth  were  wrought  by  the 
chemistry  of  that  magic  city  into  a  soft  and  deep  glowing 
liquor,  that  bubbled,  beaded,  and  shone  with  dark  lustres 
like  the  crimsons  of  her  painters  ?  Or  was  it  that  the  joy 
of  life  suddenly  woke  in  this  offspring  of  stern-living,  the 
blood  of  some  distant  forebear,  who  had  loved  and  been 
passionate  to  excess,  in  times  before  the  rugged  Cromwell 
smote  down  the  vigor  of  English  renaissance — the  strain  of 
some  sixteenth-century  jolly  yeoman  reasserting  itself  in 
him,  like  a  subterranean  river  springing  into  light  again 
after  devious  wanderings  ?  Or  was  it  that  Art,  alive,  splen 
did,  earthly,  embodied  for  him  some  grand  Germanic  con 
ception,  shadowed  forth,  as  a  symbol  and  a  sign,  the  high 
dreams  of  pure  intellect,  the  sublime  ecstasy  of  the  ele- 


44  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

mental  soul?  Be  it  for  what  cause,  Venice,  her  lights  and 
shades,  her  sadness  and  her  beauty,  broke  his  northern  aus 
terity  ;  the  lions  of  the  senses  snapped  their  guards  and 
rolled  and  kicked  and  thundered  with  impunity,  full  in  the 
court-yard  of  his  heart. 

He  lay  for  hours  on  his  back  beneath  the  ceilings  of  the 
Ducal  Palace,  absorbing,  as  a  dark  cloth  drinks  up  the  sun- 
rays,  the  symposiums  of  the  great  Venetians  spread  m  pro 
fusion  on  the  priceless  plaster.  Titian,  Tintoretto,  Vero 
nese,  became  gods  of  beauty,  and  excluded  the  Trinity.  At 
night,  propped  against  a  pillar,  he  watched  the  moon  fill  the 
square  of  St.  Mark's.  Like  a  golden  beaker,  jewelled  around 
the  rim,  which  holds  Chian  wine,  so  holds  that  square  the 
moonlight,  its  one  fit  receptacle  on  earth.  In  the  galleries, 
on  the  quays,  in  the  Cathedral,  tourists  suddenly  came  up 
against  his  tall,  thin  figure  with  its  scholar's  stoop,  the 
long,  fair  face  in  a  trance  of  wonder,  the  cavernous  eyes 
that  shot  blue  fires.  Seeing  him,  a  man  of  the  world  would 
have  laughed  ;  but  a  poet  would  have  compared  his  face  to 
a  flower's,  open  for  night's  dew.  One  knows  so  many 
crooked-legged  teachers  of  Greek,  fanatical  Hellenes,  who, 
if  they  had  shown  their  crumpled  selves  in  Pericleian 
Athens,  would  have  been  hooted  in  the  streets  by  those 
lovers  of  form.  Ah  !  the  soul  of  the  man  was  in  tone  with 
the  jaspers  and  marbles;  but  the  modern  body,  up  against  a 
stately  citizen  of  Veronese's  or  backed  by  a  blue  sea  and 
black  gondola,  is  such  a  ragged  affair. 

It  was  the  city  of  the  present  that  laid  the  spell  upon 
him .  The  golden  stabs  of  the  moon  between  two  palaces 
in  a  narrow  water-way  ;  the  reflections  on  the  water,  dark 
and  dark -billowed,  like  a  metal  mirror  of  old  Eome  ;  the 
sheen  on  the  pediments  and  capitals  of  a  renaissance  fa£ade; 
a  carved  and  statued  doorway, — Venice  was  the  name  that 
expressed  these  effects,  imminent,  immediate,  not  distant, 
nor  dim  out  of  a  past,  not  the  historical  town,  whose  re- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  45 

mains  these  crumblings  were.  The  Borghese  Palace,  on  the 
Grand  Canal,  shone  for  him  as  a  beautiful  existence,  not  the 
elegant  shell  of  a  more  interesting  past.  He  never  strove 
to  realize  that  majestic  pile  aflare  with  the  light  of  a  six 
teenth-century  festival,  the  hum  of  the  talk  of  the  ban 
queters,  the  dark  eyes  of  fair  and  evil  women,  the  stealthy 
glances  of  ambitious  intriguers,  the  elegant  pose  of  proud 
nobles,  artists  and  torturers  at  impulse.  The  arch  of  the 
Rialto  needed  no  other  associations  than  Shylock  and 
Shakespeare,  to  round  into  meaning  for  him.  The  crowds 
of  careless,  trafficking  humanity  that  once  chattered  there 
before  the  shops,  were  dead,  and  not  raised  up  by  any 
imaginings  of  his.  All  that  fateful  history  that  underlies  the 
beauty  of  Venice,  as  the  dungeons  exist  beneath  the  court 
rooms  of  the  Doge's  state  ;  those  real  men  and  women  who 
made  Venice,  refined  in  manner,  tigers  in  desire ;  that 
beautiful  guilty  City,  where  barter  and  pleasure  and  lovely 
sensuous  art  bloomed  into  the  crown-flower  of  creation ; 
that  humanity  which  knew  neither  morals  nor  an  after 
life,  which  produced  no  poetry,  nor  even  painted  with  preg- 
nance  of  meaning — that  City  of  the  past,  he  did  not  com 
prehend,  or  even  half  divine.  The  limitations  of  his  ethic 
al  imagination  cut  off  suggestions  of  motives  and  forces, 
other  than  those  which  appeared  in  himself.  The  real 
Venice  would  have  shocked  him.  Thus,  even  at  this  time, 
when  he  felt  a  Southern,  a  Catholic  ;  when  he  bathed  him 
self  in  this  civilization,  so  remote  and  so  misunderstood  by 
the  Northerner,  the  moral  man,  the  father  of  the  family, 
— even  here  his  inheritance  protruded  and  set  up  barriers. 

One  evening  he  left  the  Cathedral  square  and  plunged 
down  a  narrow  alley  to  the  left  of  the  pile  of  St.  Mark's. 
He  reached  the  stone  stairs  that  led  down  to  the  gondolas, 
on  the  canal.  Gondoliers  grouped  about,  some  on  the 
steps,  some  in  landing-boats,  some  mooring  their  craft, 
all  swearing  those  liquid  Italian  oaths  that  do  not  crush 


46  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

like  solid  English  curses.  They  clamored  round  him, 
urging  each  his  own  gondola;  eager,  vivacious,  with  a 
multitude  of  courtesies  and  southern  inflections.  Just  then 
a  girl  swung  down  the  alley  and  stopped,  speaking  to  one 
of  the  men.  Clyde  from  the  midst  of  his  chattering  crowd 
saw  her,  gesticulating,  impatient,  commanding  her  boat 
men  to  move  swiftly.  That  was  all — but  with  a  difference 
that  turned  the  world  another  color.  A  gleam  of  ivory 
flesh,  solid  and  smooth,  graceful  little  sweeps  of  hands 
turning  on  firm-marbled  wrists;  swift  motion  of  blue-black 
southern  hair  swinging  in  time  with  the  audacious  tongue; 
eyes  of  night  that  might  be  homes  of  a  soul  and  might  be 
but  wells  of  vivid  dark — only  these  :  but  life  and  all  its 
strains  and  cares,  its  sufferings  and  its  visions,  its  bestial 
ities  and  its  glories,  which  had  come  to  Hiram  Clyde,  were 
bound  about  the  mincing  ankles  of  that  Italian  work- 
girl,  to  be  kicked  into  flinders,  or  to  be  gathered  up  and 
treasured,  as  her  whim  might  veer.  What  are  love  and 
fate  ?  Two  grand  goddesses,  or  two  dirty  witches,  full  of 
spite  ? 

She  descended  to  a  gondola,  entered,  reclined  back  with 
a  voluptuous  ease,  the  great  eyes  joyous  and  shining  with 
animal  vigor.  She  tossed  salutations  here  and  there  amid 
the  throng  upon  the  quay.  Her  gondola  made  off  towards 
the  Grand  Canal. 

"  Follow  that  girl  and  keep  close  to  her/'  Clyde  said,  in 
French,  to  the  nearest  gondolier. 

Three  months  afterward  "  the  rich  American  seignior'' 
asked  Francesca  to  marry  him.  He  had  wooed  her  with  a 
southern  passion,  mixed  with  an  austerity  which  the  girl 
did  not  understand.  "  Why  was  he  so  long  about  it  ?"  she 
had  often  asked.  But  she  put  the  delay  down  to  "foreign 
madness." 

To  his  declaration  she  made  this  frank  reply : 

"  If  J  marry  you,  you  will  take  me  away  to  your  cold 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  47 

country ;  and  I  will  not  go  from  Venice.  "What  need  of 
such  trouble,  if  we  love  one  another  ?" 

At  another  time  such  blunt  immorality  would  have 
shocked  him,  but  it  may  be  doubted  if  he  understood  the 
total  import  of  her  words.  He  promised  not  to  take  her 
out  of  Italy,  and  so  married  her. 

Ten  grand  months  of  pagan  life,  the  glad  old  heathen 
days  renewed  ;  sense  and  intellect,  the  two  wheels  of  the 
chariot  of  existence,  with  no  miserable  brake  of  a  conscience 
or  a  duty  to  grasp  the  flashing  tires.  She  led  him,  with  her 
eyes  of  Italy  and  her  burnished  hair  of  night,  into  gladness 
and  into  beauty.  Never  was  his  thought  so  quick,  so  sure, 
so  faultless  in  its  strides,  so  filled  with  verve.  The  abys 
mal  chasms  of  northern  imagination,' the  awful  want  of  the 
infinite,  all  those  Germanic  convulsions  of  soul  passed  into 
thin  air  before  the  simple  humanity  of  his  Venetian  exist 
ence.  In  this  pure  air  and  surrounded  by  these  exact 
monuments,  this  objective  beauty  which  draws  the  atten 
tion  outwards,  his  mind  became  temperate  and  clear.  He 
studied  art  and  architecture,  the  finished  thought  cf  Greece, 
and  the  sublime  practical  genius  of  Rome.  The  vagueness 
of  northern  utterance  seemed  mere  mutterings,  and  the 
grand  dreams  of  his  student-days  mere  vapor. 

He  drew  on  the  capital  of  his  little  fortune;  he  crowded 
each  day  with  sensations  without  thought  of  the  future  to 
come;  he  decked  her  in  robes  that  garnished  her  beauty  as 
with  flame,  and  she  looked  agrande  dame  arisen  out  of  the 
Past,  even  such  a  one  as  Paolo  Veronese  might  have  loved 
and  painted.  Such  were  these  halcyon  days. 

But  the  novelty  wore  itself  thin,  as  use  frays  the  edges 
of  a  costly  robe,  and  the  old  spirit  reasserted  itself  at  times, 
and  yet  more  and  more,  with  greater  strength.  His  boy's 
birth  introduced  a  duty,  a  responsibility,  that  demanded 
notice,  and  the  moans  of  the  mother  in  travail  reminded 
him  of  pain  and  terror,  that  he  could  not  banish, 


48  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

The  girl  had  loved  him  with  passion,  but  without  renun 
ciation,  after  the  manner  of  the  Latins.  He  looked  out 
for  a  soul  to  respond  to  his  own  and  met  an  embrace. 
Like  a  fountain  springing  in  a  sea,  buried  so  that  it  flings 
but  white  rings  to  the  surface,  so  there  lay  a  sombre  inten 
sity,  of  emotion,  born  of  gloom  and  the  north,  beneath  his 
glad  exterior.  This  gained  on  him  and  finally  absorbed  his 
frivolity,  but  it  frightened  Francesca,  who  believed  him 
half  mad  at  times. 

Poor  northern  man  with  the  moral  genius,  not  content 
with  the  splendor  of  flesh,  but  must  probe  this  Titian  wo 
man  for  soul  and  spirit ;  must  discern,  if  possible,  some 
thing  Puritan  and  Christian  in  the  rich  passion  of  her 
love.  Byron  tried  the  same  thing,  seeking  in  that  sensual 
city  and  its  history  of  pleasure  and  beauty  and  assassina 
tion,  an  heroic  and  Teutonic  Edda,  a  noble  and  manly 
lyric. 

Behold  him,  gloomy  and  most  subjective  of  men,  at 
tempting  to  demonstrate  to  English  Phariseeism  and  to  his 
own  Gothic  viking  temper  that  an  immoral  civilization  has 
its  place,  that  morality  is  a  matter  of  latitude  and  longi 
tude,  a  cloak  one  leaves  north  of  the  Alps.  The  farce  of 
it !  Byron,  the  body,  sunk  in  sensuality  where  Italians  are 
but  scented  with  elegancies  ;  Byron,  the  spirit,  meditating 
a  liberty-war  in  Greece. 

So  this  lesser  man.  Through  the  laughter  of  Venice  he 
came  to  carry  a  grave  face,  and  amid  the  gay  jesters,  the 
flippant  and  witty  children  of  the  sun,  he  wore  a  noble 
mien  and  tortured  his  wife  to  wring  out  her  soul. 

Under  his  treatment  Francesca  died  two  years  after 
marriage;  "  frightened  to  death,"  her  friends  said.  The 
end  came  unexpectedly  upon  him;  he  faltered  like  a  man 
dealt  a  strong  blow  between  the  eyes.  But  afterwards,  in 
America,  he  knew  that  it  was  well ;  for  by  it  her  memory 
became  the  poetry  of  his  life,  a  revelation  of  the  beauty 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE,  49 

youth  hungers  for  and  which  belongs  only  to  youth.  At  first 
he  looked  to  joining  her  after  death,  but  years  of  thought 
and  loneliness  revealed  many  things;  and  at  last  he  under 
stood  her  and  her  people,  his  own  cruelty  and  the  cause  of 
her  death.  He  had  the  remorse  of  one  who  shatters  a 
costly  vase.  He  came  to  associate  her  with  Greek  statues 
and  all  lovely  mortal  things  ;  he  felt  she  had  her  place,  even 
as  he  had  his,  in  this  world's  museum  of  grotesques  and 
prettinesses,  of  butterflies  and  immortalities. 

Ah,  how  admirably  she  had  fulfilled  herself,  lived  her 
fate,  been  true  to  her  law!  Puritans  and  Northerners,  can 
we  understand  that  fine  and  gay  woman,  whose  death 
means  swift  chemical  dissolution  of  her  entirety  ?  Have 
laughter  and  bloom  and  lovely  life  for  their  selves'  sake  no 
place  in  this  moral  world  ?  Pass  by  without  contempt, 
pale  Northerners,  gentlemen  and  respectable  ;  judge  not 
that  which  is  not,  but  has  gone  as  a  rose  of  last  summer! 

Hiram  Clyde  took  his  child  and  departed.  He  came 
home  to  America  and  endeavored  to  find  his  place  in  her 
gigantic  machinery.  But  he  seemed  superfluous  in  a 
society  of  money-makers  and  virtuous  mediocrities. 
Neither,  indeed,  did  that  democratic  and  commonplace 
culture,  whose  poet  is  Longfellow  and  whose  philosopher  is 
Emerson,  offer  a  distinct  post  of  duty  to  a  man  too  pro 
found  for  its  metaphysical  theatricals  and  too  intense  for 
its  white  waistcoat  and  clerical  neck-dress  respectability. 
He  had  fled  the  Old  World;  the  New  did  not  need  him. 

So  he  drifted  back  to  Exmoor  and  planted  himself  in  his 
father's  house  and  swathed  himself  in  ideas.  He  thought 
over  life  and  its  meaning  ;  he  came  to  know  himself  and  to 
explain  his  past ;  he  trod  the  wine-press  of  his  student 
years  in  Jena  and  extracted  a  mild  and  cordial  vintage.  He 
made  half  beauties  into  whole  divinities,  and  by  dint  of  art 
and  proudest  spirituality  he  reconstructed  from  the  jets  of 
his  Venetian  life  a  poem  and  a  glory. 


50  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

That  was  his  inner  life. 

A  few  years  after  his  return  Exmoor  college  offered  him 
the  chair  of  moral  philosophy.  He  was  twenty-seven  at 
the  time,  when  he  thus  entered  upon  his  life-work,  as  out 
siders  would  have  said.  At  fifty  he  had  acquired  a  Euro 
pean  reputation  in  his  specialty. 

So,  in  that  quiet  renown,  among  a  limited  world,  his  life 
dropped  towards  its  close.  Exmoor  never  knew  him.  He 
moved,  always  a  gentleman,  but  perfectly  opaque  among 
her  people,  who  perhaps  did  not  understand  the  world's 
consideration  for  the  tall  and  meek  old  man  who  walked 
their  streets,  any  more  than  they  understood  the  reason  of 
Mr.  Keyes's  celebrity.  Hiram  Clyde  even  became  identified 
with  Exmoor's  theology,  and  people  never  dreamed  that  in 
that  unpretentious  cask  dwelt  a  demon  of  speculation  that 
in  Germany  had  towered  to  the  sky.  Neither  did  those 
young  men,  veritable  bottles  of  Christian  creed,  stoppered 
and  pasted  over  with  orthodox  sealing-wax  and  labels,  filled 
with  the  modern-Protestant-patent-medicine-ostensible- 
cure  for  every  ill,  hesitate  to  quote  Dr.  Clyde  as  a  buttress 
to  dogmatism. 

He  married  a  second  time  at  thirty-three,  a  high  lady 
of  the  land,  a  sister  of  Mrs.  Lancaster.  His  wife  died  in 
two  years,  and  he  returned  to  himself. 

He  let  his  boy  grow  as  nature  willed.  He  had  no  faith 
in  repression,  and  he  felt  it  a  fearful  thing  to  shape  a 
life. 

Such  was  the  cradle  of  Julian  Clyde. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  51 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   COMING   OF   MILLIONAIRE   GAT. 

THE  day  was  as  if  plucked  out  of  midwinter.  The  cold 
condensed  about  the  raw  hills,  and  the  shifting  clouds  rode 
low,  volleying  at  intervals  a  whiff  of  snow  in  their  flight  up 
the  valley. 

The  little  railway-station  was  placed  on  the  flank  of  the 
village.  It  stood  by  itself  amid  pieces  of  fence  and  railroad- 
tracks.  The  houses  that  looked  on  were  shabby  frame 
boxes,  worn  by  the  weather.  The  mud  was  crusted  in  the 
roads,  and  the  pools  of  yesterday's  thaw  had  turned  to  ice. 
The  sky  was  leaden,  the  buildings  were  brown,  the  fields 
were  bilious,  streaked  with  stained  snow-heaps. 

This  was  the  landscape  Julian  faced  when  he  drove  up  to 
the  station  to  wait  for  the  late  afternoon  train. 

Professor  Clyde  had  gone  to  meet  Mr.  Gay  in  the  neigh 
boring  city,  to  pilot  him  into  Exmoor.  The  branch  road 
which  led  to  the  town  was  badly  appointed  and  difficult  for 
a  novice  to  discover. 

Julian  got  out  of  the  carriage.  He  drew  out  his  watch 
after  much  fumbling  with  his  gloved  hand.  The  train  was 
due  in  five  minutes.  Chesterfield,  the  horse,  stamped  as  if 
to  promote  circulation  in  his  slender  legs.  His  master  en 
dorsed  the  action,  walking  from  the  carriage  to  the  edge  of 
the  platform  and  jumping  on  his  feet  at  every  other 
minute. 

Behind  the  dome  of  murk,  the  sun  fell  into  the  west, 


52  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

and  through  cloud-interstices  shot  horizontal  gleams  of 
cold  red.  The  frozen  brilliance  seemed,  by  contrast,  to  cast 
the  landscape  into  a  purpler  hue.  The  wind  scurried  along 
the  iron  ground  under  the  branches  and  surged  up  against 
the  open  places  with  their  buildings,  as  the  under-wave  of 
a  level  sea  sweeps  up  upon  a  sea-wall.  The  cold  increased. 
The  mists  crystallized  into  ghosts,  that  might  have  stalked 
from  the  polar  ocean. 

It  was  that  brief  time,  when  day  is  transformed  in  a 
breath  and  a  winter  night  falls  unannounced  upon  the 
land.  The  red  glows  waned  on  the  lips  of  the  cloud -planes 
and  the  purple  light  sunk  to  blacker  blue.  The  conscious 
ness  of  a  weird  influence  grew  upon  Julian.  This  is  the 
mystery  and  poetry  of  the  North,  melancholy,  desolate, 
grand  and  repelling,  that  drives  the  soul  in  on  itself.  This 
is  the  mother  of  sentiment  and  duty,  of  home  and  of  sad 
ness,  of  work  and  of  heroism. 

Suddenly  a  stir  arose  within  the  sealed  building.  Steps 
sounded  and  the  door  flew  open.  The  station-master  and 
his  assistant  came  out  and  hurried  about  the  platform. 
The  boy  attached  the  checks  to  the  trunks.  Julian 
counted  them,  as  he  watched  the  leather  thongs  slip  through 
the  boy's  awkward  mittens. 

A  whistle  shrilled  up  the  valley.  It  seemed  to  Julian 
like  the  shriek  of  the  meagre  day,  driven  out  by  the  frost- 
whips  of  the  impending  night.  The  dark  came  down  and 
the  lights  glimmered.  A  burst,  a  distant  sweep  of  defiant 
steam  into  liberty,  and  round  the  curve  flashed  the  terrible 
eye  of  the  black  being.  It  startled  Chesterfield,  so  that 
Julian  went  to  his  head.  He  peered  into  the  glare  of  the 
headlight — as  if  he  could  see  anything ! 

There  was  a  great  rush,  the  rails  rattled  before  the  mon 
ster,  steam  escaped  with  a  hiss,  the  ponderous  wheels 
groaned  along  the  steel,  the  engine  disappeared  behind  the 
station-house  and  in  a  moment  shot  out  again  with  a  cloud 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  53 

of  mist  and  careening  vapor — a  hurling  impact  of  noise, 
trailing  a  black  length  behind. 

The  train  was  at  standstill;  Chesterfield,  the  good  horse, 
shivered,  and  Julian  looked  intensely  across  the  platform 
at  the  melee  of  human  figures.  He  felt  that  something 
was  about  to  happen. 

Presently,  out  from  the  little  tumult  four  figures  emerged. 
Professor  Clyde  came  forward  hurriedly,  with  a  nervous 
trepidation  in  his  gait. 

"  Yes,"  he  was  saying  to  the  expressman,  "yes,  take  the 
baggage — all  of  it,  both  gentlemen — to  my  house."  In  his 
excitement  he  forgot  to  give  over  the  checks,  and  when 
the  baggage-man  asked  for  them,  he  felt  as  if  accused  of 
carrying  stolen  property  about  with  him. 

"That  is  our  carriage,  I  think,"  the  Professor  announced 
v/ith  no  certainty  in  his  voice.  He  ran  out  before  his  com 
panions,  calling  out,  "  Julian,  is  that  you  ?"  In  getting 
them  into  the  carriage,  he  displayed  the  worry  of  an  old 
woman. 

They  were  all  three  in  the  carriage  before  Julian  left 
Chesterfield's  head.  The  good  animal  was  a  family  affair, 
but  the  hoarse  steam  startled  his  meditative  nerves  for 
once. 

"  Hold  the  reins,  father,  until  I  get  in,"  Julian  called 
to  Professor  Clyde,  who  was  on  the  front  seat. 

When  Julian  had  driven  out  of  the  immediate  presence 
of  the  hilarious  engine,  his  father  introduced  him  to  a  muf 
fled  figure — "  Mr.  Gay,  my  son,"  the  accent  on  the  "  son," 
— and  to  another,  indiscernible  in  the  shadow, — "  Mr.  Man- 
cutt,  his  private  secretary." 

It  was  six  o'clock  when  the  carriage  unloaded  before  the 
Clyde  house.  Professor  Clyde  went  before  his  guests,  and 
opened  the  door.  A  fire  burned  in  the  great  hall,  where 
Mrs.  Lancaster  stood  in  her  black  robes  to  receive  them. 
Her  stately  mien  and  gracious  welcome  did  much  to  redeem 


54  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

Professor  Clyde's  abruptness.  Mr.  Gay  bowed  to  her,  as  he 
bowed  to  New  York  women.  His  secretary  received  just 
that  touch  of  hauteur  in  her  salute  to  him  which  is  neces 
sary  to  inspire  respect  in  "  arrived  "  plebeians.  Mrs.  Lan 
caster  sent  them  to  their  rooms,  herself  standing  by  the 
massive  newel-post  and  pointing  out  the  way. 

When  'Julian  came  in,  he  carried  hot  water  and  the 
satchels  to  the  two  gentlemen  and  announced  dinner  in 
half  an  hour. 

Below,  Professor  Clyde  was  ill  at  ease.  He  crossed  his 
legs  a  great  many  times  and  his  fingers  shook.  Mrs.  Lan 
caster  had  gone  to  the  dining-room  and  kitchen  to  super 
intend  the  serving  of  dinner.  Dinner  at  night  was  in  vogue 
only  on  state  occasions  in  Exmoor,  except  with  the  Keyeses, 
but  then  they  were  wealthy  and  were  the  importers  of 
fashion  into  the  town. 

The  disturbance  of  his  ordered  routine  troubled  the 
Professor.  Gay  was  a  new  factor,  and  Professor  Clyde,  who 
had  lived  so  long  in  Exmoor  without  a  peep  into  the  world, 
was  unaccustomed  to  indeterminate  forces.  The  placid 
man  of  old-time  stately  courtesy  and  unbroken  reserve,  as 
Exmoor  knew  him,  before  this  representative  of  an  alien 
world  became  literally  utiable  to  contain  his  uneasiness". 
When  Julian  came  into  the  parlor,  his  father  asked  him  a 
great  many  meaningless  things.  Did  he  think  Mr.  Gay  a 
fine-looking  man,  and  how  soon  would  they  be  down  ?  This 
waiting  was  intolerable.  Did  the  President  surely  promise 
to  come  this  evening?  and  perhaps  Julian  had  better  go  and 
ask  Mr.  Keyes  to  call  too. 

"What  can  you  be  thinking  of,  father?  Of  course  the 
President  will  come,  and  Dr.  Ponder  with  him.  That  is 
what  Mr.  Gay  is  here  for.  As  for  Mr.  Keyes,  you  never  can 
tell,  but  I  think  he  will  be  here." 

Professor  Clyde  said  he  wished  he  had  invited  the  Presi 
dent  to  dinner  that  night,  it  would  be  pleasanter  for  all 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  00 

around;  but  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  said  no,  because  it  would 
be  too  hurried.  Now,  he  wished  he  had  obeyed  his  own 
impulse. 

When  Mrs.  Lancaster  came  in,  the  Professor  asked  where 
she  purposed  seating  Mr.  Gay  at  the  table.  "What  are 
you  thinking  of  ?  "  answered  Mrs.  Lancaster,  surprised  out 
of  her  placidity. 

Upstairs,  when  Mancutt  had  opened  his  own  satchel, 
swearing  under  his  breath  at  country  barbarism,  and  after 
quite  finishing  his  dress  for  dinner,  he  knocked  at  Mr. 
Gay's  door. 

Once  in,  he  laughed Jn  a  halting  way,  as  if  to  suggest  but 
not  to  set  the  pace  to  his  patron.  Mr.  Gay  smiled  (he 
never  did  more),  and  with  this  permit  the  secretary 
chuckled  at  every  breath. 

"What  a  duffer  the  Professor  is!"  muttered  Mr.  Gay. 
It  was  his  single  comment  and  only  those  who  knew  the 
man  understood  the  full  content  of  the  term. 

"  Didn't  know  exactly  how  to  classify  me,  did  he  ?" 
laughed  the  secretary, — "  half  took  me  for  your  valet.  Good 
idea,  by  the  way,  you  left  Mm  over  in  Springfield  or  you'd 
have  overpowered  them  with  that  lackey's  airs.  I  suppose 
he  thought  private  secretary  meant  cross  between  valet  and 
stenographer."  Mancutt  laughed  a  silent  grin  which  had 
hardly  any  vertical  extension,  but  drew  the  mouth  into  a 
wide  slit  and  displayed  the  large  teeth  set  together  as  in  a 
bite. 

"Humph!"  he  resumed,  "  I  suppose  I  am  a  new  variety, 
as  it  were,  to  the  Doctor.  Slang  is  evidently  not  one  of  his 
languages." 

Thus  the  secretary  ran  on,  a  multitude  of  half-humorous 
suggestions,  such  as  a  thinking  parrot  might  record  of  the 
peculiarities  of  his  mistress.  Gay  was  taciturn,  and  men 
often  asked  how  he  could  endure  his  voluble  secretary. 
But  every  great  man  has  his  "  kitchen-cabinet." 


66  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

These  two  men  were  both  striking,  and  Gay  was  even 
typical.  Mr.  Gay  was  silent,  combing  his  thin  hair  to  con 
ceal  his  bald  crown.  The  millionaire  was  tall  and  dark. 
There  was  no  superfluous  flesh;  the  figure  looked  lean  and 
potent,  powerful,  like  a  steel  spring,  with  those  flat,  limber 
thighs  that  make  the  swiftness  of  the  greyhound.  The 
reflection  of  his  face  in  the  mirror  showed  a  long  oval,  with 
thin  subtle  lips  under  a  gray  stubby  mustache.  The  skin 
was  slate-hued  and  the  hair  gray  with  a  blue  tone,  which 
together  suggested  the  impenetrability  of  a  gray  rock  which 
fronts  the  ocean.  The  business  shocks  of  twenty  years  hadi 
washed  that  face  and  had  but  sealed  expression  in  it  and 
left  that  unimpeachable  look,  like  the  polished  dimness  of 
steel.  Like  a  limp  curtain  the  cheeks  hung  upon  the  skull, 
but  without  a  line  and  without  a  shade — a  certain  Napo 
leonic  impassivity.  A  calm,  subtle,  acquisitive  countenance 
that  aroused  neither  fear  nor  liking,  that  was  as  impersonal 
as  a  law  or  force  of  Nature.  One  would,  perhaps,  overlook 
it  in  a  crowd,  ignorant  that  it  belonged  to  one  of  the  mas 
ters  of  events  in  these  latter  days  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
But  the  eyes,  the  eyes,  wherein  the  potency  dwelt,  that  re 
vealed  nothing  and  yet  whose  most  indifferent  glance 
startled  one  into  curiosity  or  a  half  tremor !  Blue  shallows 
that  drank  in  men  and  houses  and  relations,  with  the  lined 
and  interlined  puffings  just  below  the  lower  lids.  Despite 
their  light  imperiousness,  they  bespoke  the  essential  char 
acter  of  the  man.  Gaze  into  their  cold  flame  and  note  the 
eyes  of  the  schemer,  that  absorb  and  never  flash ;  steady, 
treacherous,  guileful,  absolute  self,  insuperable  calculation, 
infinite  will. 

The  secretary  leaned  against  the  foot-board  of  the  bed. 
He  was  elegantly  dressed,  boots  of  finest  leather,  light 
trousers  of  latest  fashionable  girth,  dark  coat  and  vest,  and 
a  cravat  worth  three  dollars  !  Modern  dress  is  calculated 
to  cover  the  deficiencies  of  the  mean  frame,  not  to  set  off 


THE  8HADO  W  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  57 

the  elegancies  of  the  physical  aristocrat.  Attired,  the  sec 
retary  passed  for  a  handsome  man.  He  was  blonde,  and 
taller  than  Mr.  Gay.  He  had  the  powerful  shoulders  of  a 
coal-heaver  and  the  solid  limbs  of  the  athlete.  The  head 
was  large  and  square-shaped,  broad  in  the  forehead  and  but 
tressed  just  over  the  eyes.  He  had  eyes  of  the  color  of  blue 
china-ware;  they  were  forever  flitting  in  their  sockets.  He 
wore  a  blonde  mustache  and  English  side-extensions  of 
hair.  He  looked  "a  swell "  and  decidedly  English.  He 
was  about  thirty  and  unmarried.  An  accurate  observer 
would,  nevertheless,  have  affirmed  a  certain  unfinish  in  the 
man.  His  manners  were  those  of  a  man  of  the  American 
world,  courteous,  free,  and  altogether  confident.  Where 
was  the  lack  ?  In  the  square  jaw,  the  straight  promontorial 
nose  cut  off  at  an  improper  angle,  or  simply  in  the  whole 
face  ?  A  man  whom  dress  and  appearance  proclaimed  a 
gentleman,  except  that  last  evasive  falling  off,  that  last 
flash  of  the  plane  across  the  board  forgotten.  Does  he  not 
stand  for  many  figures  who  tread  the  floors  of  American' 
society  ?  And  sometimes  a  half-faded,  haunted  look  crept 
into  his  eyes,  remainder  of  the  time  when  he  was  per 
mitted;  sometimes  a  humble  note  in  his  voice,  remnant 
of  a  more  distant  past,  when  he  had  fawned  and  quailed. 

These  were  the  two  men,  who  got  ready  for  dinner  over 
the  heads  of  nervous  literature  and  quaking  philosophy. 

The  dinner  that  night  was  a  singular  affair.  The  cut- 
glass  finger-bowls  and  the  solid  silver  were  on  the  board. 
The  heavy  damask  table-cloth,  reserved  for  occasions,  hung 
over  the  table  with  unaccustomed  stiffness.  The  maid 
servant  waited  at  table,  much  against  her  inclination,  and 
her  mistress  used  adroit  diplomacy  in  managing  the  irate 
domestic.  This  Hibernian,  who  had  emerged  two  years 
ago  from  an  Irish  bog,  rebelled  at  such  menial  service. 
The  single  reason  she  could  be  induced  to  so  perform  at  all, 
was  that  it  gave  her  an  opportunity  to  see  at  close  quarters 


58  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

the  famed  operator.  Mancutt  took  in  all  these  slight  jars, 
and  derived  consolation  from  them;  for,  somehow,  Mrs. 
Lancaster  impressed  him  with  his  owu  inferiority,  despite 
his  scorn  of  rusticity,  which  products  of  New  York  like 
himself  hold  over  all  the  outer  world. 

Professor  Clyde  feared  a  pause  in  the  conversation.  He 
talked  of  stocks,  of  which  he  was  ignorant.  He  introduced 
subjects  he  supposed  interested  Mr.  Gay.  He  displayed 
his  own  business  stupidity,  he  exposed  his  innocence  of  the 
world,  he  even  ventured  on  horse-flesh.  Mr.  Gay  was 
rather  taciturn,  while  the  secretary  would  now  and  then 
throw  in  a  statement  to  draw  the  philosopher  out.  Poli 
tics  were  barred,  for  Mr.  Gay  had  no  notion  of  them. 
What  the  State  was  he  had  never  inquired,  and  his  only 
political  maxim  was,  "Good  business,  good  government." 
Mrs.  Lancaster  officiated  like  a  queen.  She  held  the  im 
pudent  secretary  in  hand;  Gay  deferred  to  her;  he  had  the 
feeling  that  she  was  a  sort  of  superior  product.  She  checked 
some  absurdities  of  Professor  Clyde's,  and  finally  with  intui 
tive  tact  she  introduced  the  Church,  missions,  to  which 
Gay  had  given  largely,  and  the  cause  of  religion.  Gay  and 
the  Professor  charged  at  the  subject  full  tilt.  Both  felt  it 
salvation.  Mancutt  sickened.  He  sank  into  silence  and 
enjoyed  his  dinner,  though  it  was  not  too  abundant  for  his 
New  York  stomach. 

The  Professor  bcame  more  and  more  pious.  He  addressed 
Gay  as  "  Deacon."  He  spoke  of  the  "  power  of  Jesus  Christ 
abroad  in  this  Christian  land/'  in  business,  as  manifested 
in  public  charities  and  avoidance  of  war.  Mr.  Gay  as 
sumed  his  "  pontifex  maximus  "  air,  the  same  he  prayed  in, 
at  the  Wednesday  night  prayer-meeting,  in  the  church  on 
Fifth  Avenue  and  when  he  taught  his  Bible-class  in  Sunday- 
school.  They  had  manoeuvred  for  positions  ever  since  they 
met  in  Springfield.  They  understood  the  right  ground 
was  at  last  under  their  feet.  At  last  they  were  mutually 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  59 

comfortable  and,  as  long  as  Gay  stayed,  the  Professor  played 
the  priest,  and  the  millionaire  the  Christian. 

Mancutt  smiled  his  horizontal  dental  grin.  To  him  it 
appeared  hypocrisy  that  Gay,  the  prince  of  business  men, 
should  take  such  interest  in  the  Church.  Still  he  thought 
there  must  be  something  in  it,  that  engaged  a  man  of  Gay's 
capacity.  At  times  in  his  recent  career,  when  things  were 
more  dubious  than  now,  he  had  thought  of  taking  a  try  at 
it  himself.  But  in  -itself  religion  seemed  instituted  non 
sense.  He  had  one  time  asked  why  a  certain  self-sacrific 
ing  minister  did  not  "sell  tea  and  get  a  living  for  him 
self."  Julian  understood  his  father,  and  knew  the  pious 
fraud  was  often  used  to  shutter  an  emancipated  spirit  from 
the  "necessary  superstitions,"  as  Professor  Clyde  called 
them  to  those  he  regarded  as  initiates.  Yet  in  the  pres 
ence  of  these  men  of  the  world,  these  able  men,  he  experi 
enced  a  slight  shame  for  abstraction  and  culture. 

After  dinner  the  five  returned  to  the  parlor.  A  fire  of 
soft  coal  burnt  in  the  grate.  The  oil-lamps  cast  a  mellow 
yellow  light  and  left  the  shadows  lurking  in  the  corners. 
Plato  looked  from  the  wall ;  the  luminous  face  in  its  intel 
lectual  beauty  seemed  discordant  with  this  modern  com 
pany,  and  yet,  with  its  coinpanion-bust  of  Bismarck,  repre 
sentative  of  it,  in  some  measure,  as  well,  where  Gays  and 
Mancutts  bow  and  converse  with  Clydes  and  Mrs.  Lancas- 
ters. 

Mr.  Gay  went  to  the  fireplace  and  stood,  resting  one  elbow 
upon  the  corner  of  the  mantelpiece.  His  pose  brought  out 
to  Julian  the  two  characteristics  of  the  man,  subtlety  and 
aggression.  Julian  thought  him  capable  of  half  heaving, 
half  sliding  over  obstacles;  strong  and  elusive  at  once. 
This  was  the  man  that  everybody  knew,  even  Paddy  in  the 
ditch.  The  magnitude  of  his  notoriety  impressed  Julian. 
He  looked  a  great  man.  Was  it  not  as  if  they  entertained 
Kichelieu  or  Oliver  Cromwell  ?  Success,  mastery,  force, 


60  THE  SHADO  W  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

they  are  the  apparent  qualities.  Somehow  Gay  appealed  to 
Julian's  imagination.  He  was  not  that  brutal  coarseness 
and  obtrusive  practicality  the  young  man  had  supposed 
to  be  the  typical  American  millionaire.  He  had  none  of 
the  qualities  of  Commodore  Vanderbilt  or  Dean  Richmond. 
Rather  he  was  clean-cut,  very  distingue,  a  Jesuit  made  a 
Chancellor.  Julian  compared  him  to  the  sixteenth -century 
Italian  princes,  to  Caesar  Borgia. 

After  Mr.  Gay  had  got  his  cigar  going  well,  he  sat  down 
in  a  big  comfortable  chair.  Following  the  usual  tendency 
of  after-dinner  meditation,  he  grew  reminiscent.  And  that 
reminiscence  was  complaisant.  He  said  he  had  made  him 
self;  he  hinted  at  early  hardships,  he  intimated,  in  his  soft 
suggestive  manner,  that  he  had  received  little  education. 
His  early  handicap  at  the  start  of  life  enhanced  his  great 
success,  and  he  had  an  unexpressed  satisfaction  that  the 
highest  culture  and  aristocracy  of  New  England,  as  repre 
sented  in  Professor  Clyde  and  Mrs.  Lancaster,  were  listen 
ing  with  overmuch  attention  to  his  description  of  what  he 
had  been.  The  man's  passion  was  power  for  its  own  sake, 
and  his  chief  pleasure  was  in  making  superiority  subservi 
ent.  He  sought  no  good  for  himself  from  any  contact.  He 
would  make  great  things  bow;  that  is  what  they  were  for — 
for  a  man  to  try  his  strength  on.  To  Gay  the  world  was 
merely  a  stupendous  power- machine,  such  as  are  scattered 
in  railway  waiting-rooms,  and  man's  business  on  earth  was 
to  see  how  much  he  could  pull. 

He  went  a  step  farther  and  insinuated  that  books  did 
little  for  a  man's  success  after  all.  "I  never  read  much. 
I  have  picked  up  most  that  I  know.  Literary  ideas  im 
pair  a  man's  practical  vigor;  at  least,  that  has  been  my  ex 
perience  with  many  college  men  whom  I  have  employed." 
He  spoke  in  his  mellifluous  tones,  that  might  tell  a  man  ke 
was  a  scoundrel,  without  conveying  much  offence. 

"  I  suppose  that  is  true/'  assented  Professor  Clyde.    Life 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  61 

had  taught  the  philosopher  one  lesson,  at  any  rate — the  in- 
evitableness  of  temperament;  so  he  seldom  opposed — what 
was  the  use  ? 

"  You  understand  I  believe  in  college  education,"  the 
millionaire  went  on.  "If  I  had  sons  instead  of  my  two 
daughters,  I  should  of  course  put  them  through  college. 
But  for  business,  for  absolute  coin,  and  where  a  man  must 
make  his  way,  he  who  has  no  theories  and  fights  up  from 
the  bottom,  conquering  by  downright  toil,  he  is  the  man 
who  can  command  business." 

"  I  have  often  remarked  that,"  said  Dr.  Clyde. 

"The  fundamental  trouble  is.  that  your  college  man  is 
too  metaphysical,"  said  Gay.  "  I  think  it  a  wrong  idea 
anyway,  to  educate  any  young  fellow,  whether  he  has  any 
thing  or  is  as  poor  as  a  newspaper- reporter,  to  desires  and 
tastes  he  cannot  gratify  for  years.  A  fellow  is  destined  for 
a  drudge,  and  you  educate  him  as  if  he  were  to  be  Lord 
High  Chancellor  of  England.  I  know  of  college-graduates 
who  are  Sixth  Avenue  car-conductors,  and  glad  to  get  two 
dollars  a  day  at  it,  too." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  descended  into  the  conversation  with — 
"  Success  !  Ah,  my  dear  sir,  if  that  were  all  of  life,  how 
true  would  be  your  statement !  Education  is  valuable,  is 
it  not  ?  not  for  what  it  brings  in  the  market,  but  for  what 
it  makes  the  man  himself  ?" 

"  Exactly  my  point,  my  dear  madam,  that  education  has 
made  the  man  sensible  to  the  pleasures  of  a  drawing-room, 
only  to  plunge  him  into  the  odors  of  a  laundry." 

Mr.  Gay  was  a  bright  man,  he  could  coin  a  figure  of 
speech  on  occasion.  It  is  doubtful  if  Mrs.  Lancaster  un 
derstood  him.  The  cloistered,  ethereal  woman  knew  no 
more  of  the  crush  of  the  world  than  of  the  atmosphere  of 
Saturn.  "Besides,"  Mr.  Gay  opened  a  third  parallel — 
"Besides,  I  should  infinitely  prefer  a  sou  of  mine  to  be  a 
success  than  an  educated  abstraction.  I  don't  take  stock 


62  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

in  a  concern  that  refines  the  marrow  out  of  the  bones/' 
Were  these  scholarly  people  who  heard  this  concealed  sneer 
so  devoted  to  the  ideal  they  were  living  for  that  it  passed 
them  scathless  ?  Did  Professor  Clyde  feel  a  secret  con 
tempt  for  this  king-Philistine  ?  Ah  !  there  was  a  wince 
in  his  eyes.  Americans  who  import  Arnoldian  disdain  and 
the  high  superior  feeling,  sometimes  have  a  secret  hanker 
ing  after  what  they  cannot  have,  like  Israel  after  the  Baal 
of  the  idolaters.  There  is  nothing  so  conducive  to  the 
literary  worship  as  deprivation  of  the  vanities. 

The  woman  was  the  one  who  answered. 

"  But  if  a  man  must  sacrifice  to  money-success  all  his 
highest,  his  culture,  his  capacity  to  feel  and  to  understand, 
why,  let  success  go  by." 

Perhaps  Mr.  Gay  did  not  altogether  understand  her 
terms,  man  of  stocks  and  schemes  and  hard  finance  that 
he  was.  He  had  recently  been  trapped  into  a  philosophical 
critique,  misled  by  the  title,  "Modern  French  Speculation," 
and  had  been  much  surprised  when  there  was  nothing  on 
the  first  page  about  the  "  Bourse." 

"  What  else  can  there  be  in  life  ?"  he  ejaculated,  fairly 
surprised. 

Their  eyes  encountered,  and  only  Professor  Clyde  divined 
the  chasm  between  them.  They  did  not  understand  them 
selves,  and  each  spoke  a  distinct  dialect. 

The  door-bell  rang  opportunely,  and  Julian  went  to 
answer  it. 

"AVe  expect  President  Pompes  and  one  or  two  of  the 
professors  this  evening,"  said  Professor  Clyde.  "Mr. 
Keyes,  also — the  literary  critic,  you  know — expressed  his 
great  desire  to  meet  you,  and  will  probably  call  as  well." 
Gay  bowed.  It  was  sweet  incense  to  have  these  "  literary 
fellows"  dance  attendance.  He  liked  this  sort  of  flattery 
better  than  any  he  had  ever  received. 

The  secretary  had  been  none  too  comfortable.     He  had 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  63 

attempted  to  talk  with  Mrs.  Lancaster,  but  his  little  jokes 
evidently  did  not  please  her.  Before  her  grave,  gracious 
eyes  the  shoAvy  worldling  broke  down.  He  felt  humiliated. 
His  amiability,  his  hearty  animal  spirits,  his  mechanical 
cleverness,  those  factitious  counters  that  pass  current  in 
the  city,  where  life  is  too  rapid  to  produce  aught  but  froth, 
were  of  no  avail  with  this  bronze-haired  stately  matron. 
She  looked  him  down  unintentionally.  His  metallic  laugh 
sounded  like  the  dry  rattle  of  dice  in  a  box.  The  gay 
player  of  life's  game,  the  superficial  self-sufficient,  was 
"rattled.** 

Julian  relieved  him  immensely  by  proposing  to  go  to  a 
little  party  of  young  people.  "  I  don't  know  whether  you 
will  enjoy  it,  Mr.  Mancutt.  It's  a  very  simple  affair,  such 
as  we  have  here  in  Exmoor.  We  just  play  cards  and  dance 
a  little  and  talk — do  as  we  please." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted  to  go,   Mr.   Clyde.     To  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  guess  I  shall  feel  better  with  a  lot  of  young  • 
people  than  in  this  literary  crowd  of  professors,  who  are 
expected." 

The  two  escaped  into  the  library  preparatory  to  their 
expedition. 

"  Gad  !"  said  the  secretary,  "  you've  got  a  lot  of  books, 
haven't  you  ?"  viewing  the  array  as  he  would  a  museum  of 
bottled  snakes. 

"Why,  do  you  like  books?"  asked  Julian,  for  want  of 
something  better  to  say. 

"Yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  them,  dote  on  some  of  them," 
replied  the  supple  secretary.  "Got  'Lucile'  here,  have 
you  ?  That's  a  thing  I  think  extraordinary.  Ah !  I  see, 
you  have  all  of  Dickens.  What  a  lot  that  man  did  write ! 
Made  money  by  them,  too.  It  must  be  rather  nice  to  be 
able  to  just  sit  down  and  write  out  a  fortune,  don't  you 
think  so?" 

Mancutt  glanced   over  the  shelves   of  unknown  books 


64  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

without  comment.  He  never  exposed  his  ignorance — ex 
cept  unconsciously  to  himself. 

Like  a  young  man,  Julian  felt  prompted  to  air  his  familiar 
ity  with  books.  He  took  down  a  volume  of  Goethe,  patting 
it  with  caressing  fingers. 

"Oh  !  that's  Gayte,  is  it?"  said  the  secretary,  seizing  his 
chance  as  he  thought.  "What  do  you  think  of  him  ?" 

"Me?  Oh,  Goethe  is  the  greatest  man  of  modern 
limes,"  answered  Julian  with  the  solemnity  of  a  priest  to 
the  multitude.  The  young  man  felt  that  such  a  primary 
truth  would  be  gospel  to  Mancutt,  who  could  not  stand  any 
stronger  wine. 

The  corrected  pronunciation  did  not  irritate  Mancutt. 
Next  time  to  some  "  literary"  lady  of  New  York  he  would 
mention  "  Goethe"  as  the  greatest  of  the  moderns  to  his 
mind.  He  had  the  true  adventurer's  spirit.  He  had  lit 
erally  learned  by  mistakes,  risen  to  higher  things  on  the 
stepping-stones  of  his  dead  blunders.  He  never  allowed 
himself  to  lose  a  lesson  from  any  man.  He  never  belittled 
men  through  envy,  nor  detracted  an  inch  from  another's 
height.  He  recovered  so  good-naturedly  from  every  rebuff 
that  his  little  humiliations  were  more  valuable  to  him  than 
some  men's  successes. 

Julian  introduced  the  secretary  to  the  little  company 
of  Exmoor  young  people  that  had  gathered  that  evening 
at  Miss  Hulding's  for  talk  and  amusement.  There  were 
Miss  Jane  Halding  herself,  Margaret  Ballard,  Hester  Har 
ris,  Edith  and  Elaine  Browning — a  circle  of  sweet  girls, 
not  very  stylish,  as  Mancutt  thought,  but  rather  superior- 
looking.  He  did  not  know  how  to  treat  them.  The  for 
mality  of  the  city  seemed  out  of  place  in  their  free  pres 
ence  and  with  their  careless  manners;  and  yet  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  behave  to  them  as  to  little  girls,  the  only 
other  manner  in  his  repertoire.  So  he  was  distraught, 
stammered  a  little,  when  the  eager  group  surrounded  him, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  65 

crying,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Mancutt,  tell  us  about  the  latest  in  New 
York/*  They  were  so  brilliant,  so  child-like  in  their  unre 
straint,  so  quick  in  their  rejoinders,  so  old  in  their  subjects 
of  talk.  Nowhere  in  the  world  save  in  towns  like  Exmoor 
could  a  company  like  this  be  gathered.  Independent,  each 
girl  as  lively,  as  forward,  as  swift  to  shaft  wit  and  contra 
dict  as  any  Parisian;  verging  very  near  the  improper,  con 
tinually  approaching  delicate  subjects  with  but  a  shell  of 
laughter  between  allusion  and  danger;  yet  each  so  nicely 
poised,  so  delicately  balanced  by  self-respect  and  innate 
purity,  that  no  one  fancied  impropriety,  or  even  supposed 
anything  but  perfect  innocence.  The  young  men  were 
most  of  them  tutors  or  such  senior  students  as  might  enter 
this  society.  The  "  motif"  of  this  company  was  unintelli 
gible  to  the  secretary :  no  effort  at  self-assertion  or  ostenta 
tion,  no  puny  prides  of  possession  or  birth,  no  conscious 
display  of  mind  or  beauty — these  Puritan  girls  dressed 
simply,  almost  plainly — these  intellectual,  high-bred  young- 
men  were  acceptable  for  themselves  alone,  not  for  what 
they  had. 

They  danced  because  they  were  filled  with  life  and 
loved  the  rhythm  of  the  movement.  They  laughed  natu 
rally  at  little  things  like  children,  and  yet  deep  subjects 
were  continually  brought  up.  Politics,  books,  art,  society, 
they  bandied  them  about.  They  clustered  about  Mancutt 
because  he  was  new.  They  pulled  him  here  and  there, 
and  used  him  with  indescribable  abandon.  They  enjoyed 
his  city  jokes  and  slang.  They  were  such  curious  minds  ! 
The  secretary  found  himself  quite  the  fad,  although  he 
was  a  little  disturbed.  He  felt  they  had  infinite  scorn  for 
ignorance,  and  he  really  became  aware  of  his  superficiality. 
Jane  Raiding  danced  him  around,  asking  him  a  thousand 
questions,  introducing  him,  telling  him  personalities — that 
Margaret  was  Hawthorne's  Hilda,  that  Elaine  Browning 
had  been  waiting  for  so  long  a  time  for  a  Launcelot,  and 


66  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

suppose  he  himself  were  the  knight,  that  Julian  went  by 
the  name  of  "  Beppo," — "Byron's  Beppo,  you  know,  the  fat 
Beppo — is  that  a  satire  on  poor  Byron  or  on  Julian,  which  ?" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A   DINNEE   OF    STATE. 

IT  has  been  said  the  Reyeses  were  wealthy;  that  is,  the 
critic  had  married  a  rich  woman.  Every  summer  Mrs. 
Alexander  Keyes  went  to  Newport,  though  she  could  not 
draw  her  husband  after  her  by  any  persuasion.  He  hated 
an  environment  other  than  the  pastoral  one  he  had  hol 
lowed  out  of  Exrnoor  for  himself;  so  he  rarely  escaped  her 
bounds.  The  nights  his  wife  danced  in  the  sumptuous 
Newport  fetes,  he  most  likely,  attired  in  a  duster  and  shod 
with  shabby  slippers  whose  soles  napped  against  his  heels, 
smoked  in  the  moonlight,  muttering  the  Greek  of  Theoc 
ritus. 

Mr.  Gay's  arrival  stirred  the  festival  heart  of  Mrs.  Keyes 
with  sweet  anticipations  of  hospitality  to  be  extended. 
There  were  so  few  opportunities  offered  one  to  entertain  in 
Exmoor,  had  been  her  social  caption  for  years.  Here  was 
an  occasion  to  match  her  zeal.  She  had  gone  to  Mrs.  Lan 
caster  and  stated  her  desire  to  give  a  dinner  to  Mr.  Gay,  if 
it  would  be  acceptable  to  the  faculty.  She  was  assured  of 
everybody's  hearty  endorsement;  indeed,  her  project  guar 
anteed  a  hospitality  worthy  the  advent  of  the  millionaire. 
Besides,  she  had  known  Mr.  Gay  at  Newport. 

Her  spirits  were  high.  Everything  was  moving  smoothly 
and  her  ambition  to  achieve  a  dinner  that  would  equal  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  67 

town's  expectations  seemed  prosperously  embarked.  The 
great  colonial  house  was  swept  and  garnished,  the  oil- 
lamps  in  the  chandeliers  glowed  forth  illumination  from 
every  window.  The  long  mahogany  table,  which  had  been 
her  grandmother's  in  the  eighteenth  century,  glittered 
with  glass  and  silver  and  old  china.  It  was  not  blindly 
that  Exmoor  reposed  confidence  in  Mrs.  Keyes,  who  would 
show  the  great  New  Yorker  that  luxuries  dwelt  in  the  old 
town  before  the  palaces  of  Manhattan  were  dreamed  of. 
The  hostess,  too,  was  important  with  her  past;  and,  lin- 
eaged  as  she  was,  her  pride  of  birth  urged  her  to  justify  the 
old  New  England  order  to  this  new  noble  of  millionairedom. 

Under  its  sombre  hood  of  maples  the  house  of  Keyes 
gleamed  brilliant.  The  great  hall  in  the  centre  thrust 
out  radiance  and  warm  joyousness  each  time  a  new  guest 
passed  through  the  open  door.  They  came  afoot,  over  the 
new-fallen  snow.  They  entered  the  hall,  wide,  dark- 
wainscoted,  with  heavy  oaken  stairs  that  shone  under  the 
lights.  They  passed  into  great,  old-fashioned  rooms 
which  fashion  had  not  overloaded  nor  the  modern  uphol 
sterer  "rococoed."  They  stood  in  little  groups  about  a 
vivacious  woman  seated  in  one  of  the  cumbrous  comforta 
ble  chairs;  or  else  they  gathered  before  an  antique  on  a 
bracket,  or  a  picture  lately  imported.  The  half  of  Mrs. 
Keyes's  income  went  to  books  and  art-treasures  for  her  hus 
band's  gratification. 

The  divinity  presiding  in  these  rooms  was  natural  and 
serene.  Before  the  wand  of  her  authority  affectation 
shrivelled  to  a  wretched  contemptibility,  and  hauteur  grew 
a  ridiculous  mask.  In  the  presence  of  these  genial  people, 
in  these  simple  rooms  in  which  beautiful  things,  old-world 
marbles  and  renaissance  nudities,  natural  manners  seemed 
the  only  possible  thing,  and  postures  and  forms  overmuch 
and  out  of  taste. 

Mrs.  Keyes  did  the  honors,  while  her  husband  insisted 


68  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

on  circulating  like  any  other  guest  and  having  a  good  time. 
They  all  awaited  Professor  Clyde  and  his  guests.  The  five 
came  in  together,  Mrs.  Lancaster  and  Mr.  Gay  first,  the 
secretary  and  Professor  Clyde  behind,  while  Julian  strayed 
in  the  rear.  Mrs.  Keyes  had  assumed  the  ponderous  air 
of  the  society  woman  when  the  party  first  entered,  and  she 
received  the  millionaire  with  that  grand  manner  which  is 
stupid  and  absurd,  since  it  is  only  one  poor  biped  greeting 
another  equally  two-legged.  As  the  New  Yorkers  advanced, 
a  perceptible  transformation  came  over  the  company;  for 
mality  crept  into  their  address,  the  women  stiffened  or 
simpered,  while  the  men  forgot  their  unconstraint  and 
stood  on  one  leg,  or  nudged  their  brothers  in  nervous 
trepidation.  The  critic  himself  recovered  with  a  jerk  and 
ambled  at  an  indecisive  pace  up  to  his  wife's  bulky  figure. 

"  We  are  very  glad  to  welcome  you  to  Exmoor,  Mr.  Gay. 
I  had  hardly  thought  I  should  ever  see  you  here,"  smiled 
Mrs.  Keyes,  extending  her  welcoming  hand. 

Mr.  Gay  bowed  and  murmured  some  formal  words  of 
thanks  and  his  unexpected  pleasure  in  again  meeting  Mrs. 
Keyes  and  as  his  hostess. 

"I  hear  they  are  giving  you  a  very  early  idea  of  our 
town,  Mr.  Gay.  They  have  taken  you  everywhere,  I  be 
lieve,  over  the  campus  and  the  buildings,  and  shown  you 
views  and  just  everything,"  she  said  vivaciously. 

The  millionaire  assented,  while  Professor  Clyde  answered 
for  him:  "Oh,  yes;  we  have  shown  Mr.  Gay  everything. 
We  intend  he  shall  carry  back  to  New  York  a  vivid  picture 
of  Exmoor  and  the  college,  so  that  he  may  know  himself 
our  peculiar  advantages,  and  then  may  use  a  business  man's 
sagacity  in  determining  what  should  be  done." 

The  implied  importunity  irritated  the  rich  man.  "You 
certainly  have  an  admirable  location  for  a  college  here  ;  and 
for  me,  I  could  see  no  flaw  in  the  appointments,  nor  im 
perfection  either  of  place  or  appropriateness,"  he  answered, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  69 

using  the  meaningless  generality  with  which  a  man  of  great 
affairs  covers  his  purposes. 

The  secretary,  who  followed  his  patron,  was  impressed  by 
the  blank  distinction  of  his  hostess's  face  and  the  volume  of 
her  figure.  Mrs.  Keyes  received  Julian  with  the  formality 
they  always  preserved  between  them,  to  cover  their  non- 
affinity.  Julian  had  never  understood  how  his  friend's 
fastidious  sense  and  fine  feeling  for  spiritual  sympathies 
had  borne  with  his  partner's  inane  pretentiousness.  Evi 
dently  their  marriage  savored  of  the  contract  and  not  of 
the  sacrament;  the  consideration  being  her  money  for  his 
celebrity;  result  felicitous,  enabling  him  to  build  himself 
a  "  palace  of  art "  and  live  removed  from  the  sordid,  while 
she  basked  in  his  name,  and  received  the  solicitous  interest 
of  society,  foreign  distingues  and  plebeian  lion-hunters. 

The  secretary  spoke  some  moments  with  the  hostess. 
He  managed  better  with  her  than  in  his  passages  with  Mrs. 
Lancaster.  Later  in  the  evening  he  talked  a  space  with 
her,  and  she  took  hold  of  his  good  things  and  understood 
his  New  York  wit.  She  was  the.,  only  matron  of  Exmoor 
who  permitted  him  to  indulge  a  self-satisfied  feeling. 

When  he  turned  away  from  her,  he  steered  for  Gay,  who 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  parlors,  alone  for  the  moment. 
The  secretary  neared  him. 

"  Quite   recherche,  sir,"   the  secretary  began,  in  his 
quizzical  impudent  way. 

"  They'll  never  let  me  out  of  the  trap  without  paying 
ransom,"  answered  Gay,  looking  off,  as  if  he  had  remarked 
a  commonplace. 

"  I  thought  as  much.  I  told  you  before  we  left  Wall 
Street  that,  if  you  came,  you'd  have  to  plank.  Dear 
racket,  this,"  commented  the  secretary. 

The  millionaire  had  come  to  Exmoor  with  the  precon 
ceived  notion  of  paying,  but  now  it  suited  his  humor  to 
assume  with  his  secretary  that  he  paid  with  reluctance. 


70  TUE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

"  These  professors  are  pluckers — hang  on  like  leeches," 
he  growled,  looking  down  the  room.  He  intended  to  give 
the  college  a  new  library. 

The  secretary  moved  away. 

The  assembly  gradually  dispersed  into  clusters  of  threes 
and  fours,  as  before  Mr.  Gay's  entrance,  for  general  con 
versation  is  an  impossibility  out  of  France  and  we  gravitate 
to  the  dialogue,  as  it  were. 

Meanwhile  the  millionaire  stood  at  the  head  of  the  rooms, 
and  one  after  another  by  twos  the  professors  and  ladies 
swept  up  to  him  or  hit  upon  him  in  their  circuit.  Mrs. 
Keyes  introduced  them  all,  officiating  with  the  solemnity 
of  a  high-priestess  before  the  idol.  He  received  them 
with  low  bows  which  obviated  the  necessity  of  overmuch 
speech,  and  he  gave  the  profuse  remarks  of  these  loquacious 
students  the  flattering  attention  to  which  he  had  trained 
his  intercourse  with  the  world.  Yet  all  the  while  he  was 
involuntarily  impelled  to  cut  into  their  rambling  talk  with 
the  curt  "Make  it  short "  he  used  to  his  clerks.  He  was 
bored.  In  that  garrulous  confusion  Julian  marked  the 
tall,  lean  figure  and  the  gray  taciturn  face.  He  thought 
of  the  Roman  proconsul  in  the  agora  of  Athens. 

The  President  whelmed  him  over  with  attention ;  the 
President  bowed  and  smiled  and  smoothed  over  millionaire 
Gay.  The  President  was  a  blonde  with  a  big  square  head 
and  sandy  side- whiskers.  His  features  were  inordinately 
prominent,  from  the  knotty  forehead  impending  over  the 
huge  ox-eyes,  to  the  boot-heel  chin  clasped  under  the  long, 
firm,  mean  mouth.  The  nose  was  heavily  built  out,  as  it 
were,  buttressing  the  brows  like  the  flying  arch  of  a  Gothic 
cathedral.  Such  was  the  man's  forceful  and  incongruous 
head,  and  such  as  it  was,  set  it  on  a  column  that  circled 
out  of  the  high-banded  collar,"  like  the  bare  neck  of  the 
vulture  out  of  its  feathers.  The  body  was  square  and  the 
arms  grew  out  of  its  upper  comers,  over-long  and  ending 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  7l 

in  large  white  and  tender  hands,  always  clammy.  The  at 
tenuated  legs  beneath  the  cask  of  the  trunk  looked  like  the 
dancing  extremities  of  a  puppet  which  is  supported  on  a 
wire.  Moreover,  this  anatomy  was  not  strikingly  ugly  nor 
absurd.  It  was  clad  faultlessly.  This  man  by  dint  of 
politic  shrewdness  and  downright  character  had  hewn  a 
place  for  himself  in  the  world,  and  exacted  consideration 
from  men.  Even  Mr.  Gray,  despite  the  faults  of  the  Presi 
dent's  manner  and  his  almost  fulsome  obeisance,  respected 
him  in  a  way ;  for  the  millionaire  recognized  certain  kin 
dred  qualities  in  him,  those  characteristics  which  had  made 
him  necessary  to  Exmoor  College  and  which  had  conquered 
the  community.  The  President's  scholarship  might  be  im 
peached,  but  he  knew  men  and  possessed  executive  ability, 
and  so  had  seized  the  helm  of  a  ship  whose  voyagers  shirk 
responsibilities  and  demand  a  captain  who  will  sail  the  craft 
without  troubling  their  siestas.  Yet  strip  the  man  of  his 
manner  and  regard  him  as  a  physical  specimen  of  the 
human  plant,  and  Julian's  verdict,  borne  out  of  his  south 
ern  sense  of  form,  was  correct.  Julian,  who  disliked  him, 
always  spoke  of  him  as  that  "gargoyle."  Mr.  Keyes  once 
said,  "Oh,  Pompes,  he  is  our  buskined  Dogberry." 

"  Tell  me,  you  know  him,"  said  the  millionaire,  abruptly 
breaking  the  rosary  of  the  President's  compliments, — "  what 
sort  of  a  young  man  is  Professor  Clyde's  son  ?  I  think  I 
never  saw  a  handsomer  fellow." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  think  I  may  claim  to  know  something  about 
him.  1  have  been  his  teacher  in  the  past,  when  he  was  yet 
a  student,  and  I  hazard,  yes,  hazard  the  assumption  that 
I  may  have  contributed  in  some  degree  to  his  development 
and  to  the  moulding  of  his  character.  Very  important, 
exceedingly  so,  the  first  training.  The  eajly — the  early 
ideals,  I  may  say." 

"Yes,  but  what  is  he  ?"  interposed  Gay's  abrupt  inter 
rogation. 


72  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

"  What  is  he — what  is  he  ?  Well,  I — you  know,  myself — 
I  am,  perhaps,  not  the  most  competent  judge.  There  can  be 
no  doubt,  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  and,  indeed,  I  have 
absolutely  no  hesitation — not  the  least — in  pronouncing  him 
an  estimable  youth.  However,  you  knew — him — of  his 
mother,"  he  added,  in  a  guttural  whisper — "you  knew 
that  his  mother  was  a  shop-girl  of  Venice — Italian,  you 
understand,  and  a — 

"  I  knew  his  father  married  in  Italy,"  said  Gay,  dryly. 
Then  he  went  on  in  conclusive  tones,  "I  intend  doing 
something  for  that  young  man." 

President  Pompes  threw  a  quick  look,  but  Gay's  ashen 
face  was  an  unwritten  tablet.  Mr.  Gay  had  divined  the 
President's  antagonism,  and  the  knowledge  had  crystallized 
his  undefined  interest  in  Julian  into  settled  purpose.  The 
millionaire  suspected  the  President's  unctuousness  veiled  a 
contempt  for  a  mere  ignorant  money-bags,  and  as  he  had 
no  wish  to  cross  his  large  plans  of  bounty  to  Exmoor  Col 
lege,  he  took  it  out  on  the  inflated  theologian  in  small 
ways. 

When  the  President  had  pushed  forward  his  two  sons  with 
amplest  introduction,  the  New  Yorker  had  looked  over  their 
heads,  indifferent  or  absorbed. 

President  Pompes  turned  the  conversation,  but  President 
Pompes  was  scarlet. 

"  Mr.  Gay,  are  you  an  admirer  of  women,  a  devotee  at 
the  shrine  of  the  ladies  ?  You  will  permit  me,  I  am  sure, 
to  draw  your  attention  to  the  fact,  which  must  be  patent 
to  you,  that  our  Exmoor  ladies  may  well  occupy  your  as- 
tention.  New  England  women  are  not  the  women  of  New 
York,  of  course;  but  then  we  shall  not  quarrel,  for,  as  I 
take  it,  there  is  no  rivalry.  They  are  such  different  types, 
and  I  fancy  I  may  invite  you  to  admire  our  ladies  without 
treason  to  your  own  city." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  73 

The  millionaire  alleged  that  every  man  should  admire 
women. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  sir,  let  me — kindly  permit  me  to  express 
my  gratification  at  your  gallant  words.  Of  course,  you 
who  come  here  from  New  York  and  her  fashion  cannot 
expect  us  to  vie  in  point  of  ornament  or  adornment,  or,  let 
me  observe,  of  any  of  those  charming  accessories  of  beauty. 
But  we  have  some  old  names  here  to-night,  women  whose 
great-grandmothers  were  leaders  of  society  three  genera 
tions  ago.  But  I  want  you  to  know  Mrs.  Ballard,  a  grand — 
indeed  a  grand  woman! — and  will  you  not  permit  me,  my 
dear  sir,  to  take  you  to  her  ?  Her  daughter  is  the  young 
lady,  a  most  charming  girl,  now  talking — on  your  left,  as 
we  pass — to  your  young  friend,  Mr.  Clyde."  He  had  bent 
his  back  towards  Gay  and  had  passed  his  flabby  hand 
through  the  millionaire's  arm. 

The  New  Yorker  was  undetermined  whether  the  Presi 
dent's  flowers  of  speech  proceeded  from  his  condescension 
to  mankind,  as  to  an  inferior  needing  to  be  cajoled  and 
led,  or  whether  he  was  positively  unaware  of  his  own  ab 
surdity. 

"  He  may  think  the  world  asinine,  but  why  should  he  treat 
me  as  if  I  were  one  of  the  same  kind?"  Gay  asked  himself. 
At  any  rate,  when  it  came  to  women,  the  President  was 
— "  one  of  those  sentimentals."  He  afterwards  said  to  his 
secretary,  "  That  pompous  goat  is  a  soft  old  pudding." 

The  widow  was  dressed  in  black,  without  an  ornament, 
without  a  jewel.  Her  black  sleeves,  edged  with  handsome 
lace,  enhanced  the  ivory  of  her  rounded  wrists  and  beauti 
ful  hands.  She  stood  with  her  back  to  the  fireplace ;  she 
looked  a  grand  woman  there  in  her  simple  dress  ;  her  face 
had  the  cast  of  tragedy  and  greatness.  Thus  it  was  that 
she  met  Gay,  the  man  who,  pursuing  his  destiny,  would 
illumine  the  sombre  journeying  of  her  life  with  one  clear 
gleam  of  power  and  authority,  ere  Fate  trod  her  into  the 


74  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

mud,  as  the  foot  of  the  passer-by  imbeds  the  pebble  in  the 
soft  earth. 

She  interested  the  self-sufficient  man  at  first  sight.  He 
felt  drawn  to  this  woman,  whose  soft  fingers  grasped  his 
hand  with  a  man's  firmness. 

When  the  President  had  retreated,  she  said  in  her 
sincere  simple  way,  "  We  are  all  glad  to  see  you  in  Ex- 
moor,  Mr.  Gay.  The  advent  of  a  man  of  affairs  stirs  up 
our  stagnation." 

Gay  gave  her  the  intuitive  esteem  of  an  able  man  for  his 
equal.  He  answered  her  with  direct  phrases,  such  as  he 
used  in  Wall  Street  about  important  matters.  This  wo 
man  made  every  one  himself,  so  that  people  talked  out  their 
real  selves  to  her. 

Dinner  was  announced.  The  hostess  requested  Mr.  Gay 
to  take  Mrs.  Ballard  out.  She  herself  went  out  on  the  arm 
of  the  President,  according  to  the  tradition  of  Exmoor  ; 
this  perquisite  of  office  was  peculiarly  pleasant  to  the  in 
cumbent  head  of  the  college.  Exmoor  had  some  ways  of 
its  own  in  doing  things  certainly,  Gay  thought. 

The  President  said  grace  and  the  dinner  was  fairly 
begun.  Mrs.  Keyes  diffused  a  radiant  contentment  and 
bonhomie  from  her  massive  person;  the  vacant  amiability 
of  her  aristocratic  countenance  sheltered  her  neighbors, 
like  the  solidity  of  a  Roman  wall.  The  critic,  however, 
was  nervous  and  the  servants  irritated  him.  He  hated 
these  large  entertainments.  "  Too  much  of  the  amphi 
theatre  about  them,"  he  used  to  say.  A  hundred  trifles 
demanded  instant  decision,  and  a  nice  dispute  was  always 
frustrated  by  a  plate  descending  before  one's  argumentative 
nose. 

Julian  sat  next  Margaret  Ballard— Italy  cheek  by  jowl 
with  Massachusetts.  President  Pompes  had  Mrs.  Lancaster 
on  one  side  and  Mr.  Mancutt  on  the  other.  Mr.  Gay  had 
the  post  of  honor  on  the  right  of  the  host,  while  Mrs.  Ballard 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  75 

supported  the  other  flank.  It  was  an  Exmoor  arrange 
ment;  people  were  supposed  to  be  stationed  agreeably  and 
not  for  precedence'  sake,  the  hostess  delighting  to  honor 
no  one  over  the  heads  of  her  other  guests.  Mrs.  Ke}Tes 
was  said  to  possess  an  instinct  for  grouping  people. 

The  President  ventured  to  remark  that  men  uncon 
sciously  acted  out  their  character;  that  Mr.  Gay  was  an 
absorber  and  compeller  born;  that,  without  intending  to 
monopolize,  he  was  certainly  holding  Mrs.  Ballard  from 
that  market  where  her  words  sold  above  par  and  her  smiles 
were  esteemed  coupons  of  gold.  This  elephantine  humor 
brought  down  the  table.  Julian  was  impressed  with  its 
asininity.  But  it  failed  to  divert  Gay,  who,  after  returning 
a  polite  response,  resumed  his  conversation  with  the  widow, 
only  pausing  now  and  then  to  answer  a  question  from  some 
one,  or  to  throw  in  an  aside  to  his  host. 

Mrs.  Ballard  was  pleased.  She  lighted  the  seventy 
candlesticks  of  her  charms  for  Gay.  She  revelled  in  the 
envy  of  that  table  of  people,  who  had  never  understood  her 
and  who  had  persistently  underestimated  her. 

The  secretary  sat  next  Miss  Jane  Halding,  who  greatly 
amused  him.  He  got  along  with  her  much  better  than 
before.  At  first  he  had  hardly  known  how  to  take  her, 
as  he  told  Julian  afterwards;  she  seemed  as  elusive  as 
mercury,  and  slipped  away  when  he  thought  he  had  her 
tight.  He  had  two  thirds  of  a  notion  she  was  mocking 
him.  Finally  he  dropped  pretence  and  told  her  funny 
things,  not  thinking  of  himself.  She  enjoyed  them  with 
her  whole  soul,  laughing  in  pure  bell-notes,  like  a  child. 
The  irregular  features  and  two  little  blue  eyes,  intense 
points  of  light,  seemed  charged  with  an  electricity.  Per 
haps  nothing  she  said  was  very  brilliant,  but  the  play 
of  her  face  made  it  seem  so,  and  the  pouting  mouth 
darted  little  silver  arrows  of  speech  that  stung  and 
sparkled. 


76  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

In  his  droll  way  the  secretary  recited  the  tribulations  of 
Mr.  Gay  and  himself  since  they  had  come  into  Exmoor. 
He  felt  Miss  Halding  would  forgive  impudence,  any  irrev 
erence,  indeed,  against  Exmoor  institutions,  if  he  only 
made  her  laugh.  Thus  he  revenged  himself  on  these 
professors  who  treated  him  as  a  sort  of  annexed  baggage- 
car  to  Gay's  train  ;  he  paraded  their  ridiculous  points 
before  this  Mephistophelian  chit  of  a  girl  with  infinite 
gusto. 

"  Why,  positively,  poor  Mr.  Gay  has  nearly  died  of  thirst 
since  he  came,  let  alone  the  Puritanical  abundance  of 
your  'high  thinking'  dinners.  This  is  the  first  house  in 
Exmoor  where  he  has  had  enough  to  drink;  I  can  see  it  by 
his  expression.  Between  ourselves,  if  these  reverend  her 
mits  only  knew  it,  they'd  serve  up  to  him  less  flourishes 
and  more  fluid." 

Jane  Halding  looked  at  the  millionaire  with  pretended 
compassion.  "  The  poor  dear  creature !  What  a  shame  to 
starve  him  so!  But  is  he  absolutely  incapable  of  drinking 
water?  How  nice  to  have  such  a  discerning  throat!" 

She  turned  her  demure  face  to  the  secretary,  who  nearly 
exploded.  They  both  thought  it  a  huge  joke.  When  the 
table  asked  the  reason  of  their  uproar,  they  concealed  it 
together,  entertaining  a  sense  of  joint-ownership. 

"  You  know,"  said  the  secretary  later  on — "  You  know 
we  lauded  in  Springfield  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
and  the  train  to  your  town  doesn't  get  out  of  that  beauti 
ful  hole  until  noon.  Well,  Professor  Clyde  met  us  and  carted 
us  over  to  one  of  your  stuffy,  quiet  little  hotels,  such  as 
you  meet  everywhere  in  tbe  country,  and  slapped  us  down 
in  the  parlor.  Two  hours  ahead  before  breakfast.  We 
were  enormously  sleepy,  but  that  old  immortal  had  to  be 
dealt  with.  I  slipped  off  to  bed;  but  what  do  you  sup 
pose  ? — that  fussy  old  affair  kept  Gay  there  and  talked 
Roman  law  to  him  until  breakfast-time.  Gay  didn't  even 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  77 

get  a  cup  of  coffee  to  revive  himself  with.  You  ought  to 
have  heard  Gay  swear  afterwards — or  rather  you  oughtn't, 
— wouldn't  do  at  all!  but  you  can  take  my  word  for  it." 

The  secretary  described  the  journey  on  the  branch  rail 
road  up  to  Exmoor;  how  the  Professor  and  the  millionaire 
bungled  over  each  other  in  supplying  conversation  ;  how 
Gay  was  uncomfortable  and  the  philosopher  seemed  a  fool. 
Jane  Raiding  laughed  and  laughed.  A  professor's  stupid 
wife  near  them  picked  up  the  drift  of  their  talk  and  glared 
conscientiously  at  the  blasphemers  ;  but  Mancutt  did  not 
see,  and  Jane  Raiding  only  felt  like  sticking  out  her 
tongue  at  the  shocked  thick-skull. 

Modern  life  puts  one  coat  on  the  back  of  the  world  and 
prescribes  one  style  and  a  uniform  manner  of  eating,  but 
through  the  monotony  of  this  warp  runs  a  various  woof 
made  of  strands  drawn  from  every  creed  and  colorings 
extracted  from  every  ideal  history  has  imposed  on  men 
or  beaconed  them  by.  The  Puritan  and  the  sensualist, 
the  fanatic  and  the  sceptic,  the  seer  and  the  ordinary  ani 
mal,  were  ranged  at  that  table,  speaking  the  courtesies  of 
good  breeding — all  careless  of  the  limitless  gulfs  between 
them,  of  the  devils  and  angels  embodied  in  those  conven 
tional  diners.  The  century  has  been  the  cesspool  of  its 
predecessors,  into  which  they  have  drained  their  ideas, 
their  institutions,  their  laws,  their  love,  their  spirit,  their 
sin.  The  modern  man  is  a  mass  of  a  thousand  elements 
crushed  into  cohesion;  under  the  vulgar  garb  of  the  street 
beat  passionate  hearts  and  hearts  dry  as  baked  clay — Ham 
lets  and  Amiels,  lagos  and  Heines,  melancholy  harlequins 
and  pompous  heroes,  Jews  and  Greeks  and  Romans,  or  all 
of  them  strangling  each  other  in  one  single  carcass. 

There  were  men  of  large  minds  and  rare  natures  about 
Mrs.  Keyes's  table,  and  women  of  spiritual  type,  with  royal 
purity  shining  on  their  brows — for  the  select  of  Exmoor  dined 
there.  But  the  secretary,  superficial  skin  of  humanity 


78  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

that  he  was,  thought  he  had  never  seen  such  a  stupid  set, 
and  Gay  himself  was  visibly  bored,  except  with  Mrs.  Bal- 
lard.  These  recluses  did  not  know  how  to  be  lightly 
agreeable.  Their  mirth  was  ruined  by  its  ponderosity,  as 
the  Carthaginian  elephants  trod  down  the  supporting  foot 
men.  They  themselves  took  little  pleasure  in  it,  and  it 
was,  for  the  most  part,  but  an  ungraceful  affectation. 
They  told  old  stories  current  in  town  two  years  ago  ;  they 
laughed  like  schoolboys  let  loose. 

Gradually,  however,  as  the  millionaire  narrowed  his  at 
tention  to  Mrs,  Ballard  and  his  immediate  neighbors,  the 
professors  descended  to  their  real  exercise-ground;  points 
of  theology  and  literature  were  unmasked  and  trained  on 
the  table.  Keyes  led  off  with  Shelley,  as  usual ;  St.  Paul 
followed  hard  after.  The  women  broached  the  "  Carlyles." 
They  had  small  mercy  for  the  grim  grand  peasant  and  his 
genius  that  bluntly  bore  home  to  the  truth.  They  were 
full  of  commiseration  for  the  brilliant,  egotistical,  beautiful 
wife;  it  never  occurring  to  their  feminine  understanding 
that  the  egotism  of  a  young  woman  who,  loving  another 
man,  yet  would  appropriate  a  whole  genius,  merely  as  a 
comforter  for  herself,  had  something  provincial  and  petty 
in  it. 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Ballard  was  reducing  the  million 
aire.  They  talked  everything,  and  every  minute  Mr.  Gay 
got  nearer  to  himself,  his  ambitions,  his  hopes.  This 
woman  understood  him. 

After  dinner,  in  the  parlors  the  two  talked  alone,  apart 
from  the  others.  They  spoke  of  life,  its  aims,  and  that 
which  best  perpetuates  a  man. 

"  When  a  man  has  success  in  his  hands,  he  asks  what  he 
shall  do  with  it,"  said  Mr.  Gay.  "  I  have  money  and 
place,  but  within  two  years  after  my  death  I  shall  be  for 
gotten.  I  have  no  sons,  and  my  daughters  will  but  carry 
my  wealth  to  other  men," 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  79 

The  millionaire  opened  himself  to  this  stranger,  whose 
power  made  him  confess  what  he  had  never  said  to  an 
other. 

"  Ah,  but  you  who  know  the  world  so  well  must  surely 
understand  that  a  man's  perpetuity  lies  in  some  work 
which  affects  men  after  he'  is  dead,"  she  answered,  in  her 
low  voice.  "And  if  you  have  the  mind  to  occupy  men's 
thoughts  during  your  life,  you  can,  if  you  wish,  devise 
some  means  to  be  remembered."  Her  eyes  challenged  him 
to  dare,  to  perform.  "You  are  able,  let  me  see  if  you  are 
as  able  as  I  think." 

"But  how?"  he  asked.  "Shall  I  found  a  hospital,  or 
endow  a  college — here,  in  Exmoor,  for  instance  ?" 

The  widow  swept  round  upon  him  with  an  enthusiasm, 
a  conflagration  lighting  her  face.  "  You  do  it !  You  do 
it !  I  never  thought,  but  it  is  the  thing.  Back  Exmoor — 
organize  anew !  Gay  University  shall  be  the  name.  It  is 
your  chance,  your  perpetuation!" 

Her  impetuosity  shook  even  Gay,  calculator  that  he 
was. 

"I  have  thought  of  it,"  he  admitted,  with  a  trace  of  his 
old  reluctance  to  show  his  hand.  "  But  to  tell  you  the 
truth" — he  hesitated — "I  hardly  know  how  to  handle 
these  moles  —  I  beg  pardon!  I  mean  I  don't  understand 
your  Exmoor  professors." 

"I  understand.  They  are  hermits,  recluses,  impracti- 
cals — what  Bonaparte  styled  'ideologists.'  So  much  the 
more  for  you ;  it  makes  your  opportunity.  There  is  no 
rival  patron;  there  is  not  an  able  man  to  infringe  upon 
your  supremacy.  The  college  needs  money  and  ability  be 
hind  her,  and  you  are  offered  a  monopoly  of  it  all." 

She  would  have  made  a  splendid  Madame  Adam,  the 
queen  of  a  political  salon.  She  was  admirable  in  foresee 
ing  the  course  of  a  conversation,  m  planting  a  stake 
ahead,  to  be  led  up  to. 


80  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

"Everything requires  management  and  money,  nowadays; 
even  to  be  saved  we  need  it,"  asserted  the  millionaire, 
resuscitating  his  dictatorial  pride  by  the  words;  for  at  bot 
tom  he  felt  his  individual  inferiority  before  New  England's 
patricianism.  He  had  more  brains  than  his  secretary,  and 
he  could  see  that  much. 

"Well,"  he  went  on  with  the  indifference  of  the  power 
ful,  "I  suppose  I  could  transform  Exmoor  into  a  great 
college,  a  main  centre  of  education.  I  can  spare  ten  mil 
lions  just  as  well  as  not.  I  believe  this  is  the  right  place 
for  a  college.  It's  the  country,  and  I  don't  believe  in 
city  colleges.  Why,  with  the  backing  I  could  put  into  it, 
we  could  just  as  well  have  a  thousand  students  here  as 
four  hundred." 

"There  is  the  right  tradition  here  too,"  Mrs.  Ballard 
suggested.  "The  town  has  a  fame  of  its  own;  Keyes  and 
Professor  Clyde  and  their  coterie  have  made  it  so.  That 
is  a  basement  worthy  building  on.  Take  hold  and  work  a 
reformation,  and  if  you  wish  to  be  remembered  you  will 
have  not  only  your  own  university  but  the  prestige  of 
Exmoor  to  aid.  You  will  be  associated  together;  you  will 
stand  as  a  sort  of  Maecenas  or  Louis  XIV.  to  the  literary 
school  here.  It  would  be  a  gigantic  memorial,  a  kind  of 
modern  Cheops,  do  you  see?  To  do  that  is  greater  and 
more  lasting  than  to  leave  an  immense  fortune  your 
grandchildren  will  make  fragments  of ;  or  to  build  a 
palace  at  which  the  next  generation  of  clerks  will  ask. 
'Who  was  the  fellow,  anyhow,  who  paid  for  it?'" 

She  went  on.  She  pictured  the  new  Exmoor;  she 
painted  in  the  enticing  details,  and  by  sheer  imagination 
kindled  the  man.  Electric  lights,  wide  shop-windows, 
throngs  of  students  in  the  streets,  a  rushing  business,  a 
new  town  born  of  the  great  college's  demands,  the  royal 
buildings  of  Gay  University  seated  on  the  hill  and  looking 
twenty  miles  northward  down  the  valley — all  the  material 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  81 

effects  which  would  appeal  to  a  nature  unaffected  by  spir 
itual  forces.  She  used  a  business  man's  terms.  She  always 
dropped  into  other  people's  vocabularies ;  she  spoke  non 
sense  to  women,  slang  and  half -expressions  frequently  to 
Julian,  classic  periodics  to  Professor  Clyde.  She  was  so 
intellectually  strong  and  of  so  free  an  imagination  that  she 
seized  the  position  of  others,  as  a  skilful  general  grasps  at 
the  base  of  his  foe.  She  paralleled  her  modes  of  thinking  to 
another's,  so  that  often  she  comprehended  his  intention 
more  adequately  than  that  person  himself.  She  had  seen 
the  amorphous  shape  in  Gay's  mind  and,  through  sheer 
inclination  to  lead  and  control,  she  was  impelled  to  set  his 
own  ideas  before  him. 

The  enthusiasm  of  that  powerful  face,  so  calculated  to 
impress  even  in  repose;  the  ability  and  grasp  upon  the 
facts  and  the  manner  of  her  marshalling  them  to  touch  the 
self  and  the  motives  of  his  character;  the  appeal  to  his 
pride  of  power,  his  thirst  for  perpetuity  ;  his  unconscious 
purpose  to  offer  redemption  for  the  compromises  of  a  suc 
cessful  career, — they  all  compelled  Gay.  That  cold  and 
skilful  nature,  struck  through  its  one  mode  of  sympathy — 
admiration  of  force,  wherever  seen — was  dominated  by  the 
magnetism  of  the  woman's  thought  and  quickened  by  the 
vigor  of  her  nerve-fluid. 

Gay  University! 

Conquerors  in  the  Middle  Age  endowed  abbeys  above 
their  Senlacs. 


82  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

A    PROSE   MEDEA. 

JULIA  BALLARD  was  a  large  woman  of  imponderable  fig 
ure,  the  undulations  of  which  were  retained  by  corset-steel, 
as  a  reservoir  is  held  in  by  a  dam.  Yet  her  entire  effect 
was  massive,  and  her  walk  bore  her  down  upon  her  desti 
nation  like  a  frigate  on  a  foe.  She  always  sat  bolt  upright, 
and  in  conversation,  particularly  when  listening,  her  body 
swayed  from  the  hips  in  rhythmic  motion,  while  her  hands 
lay  in  her  lap,  her  beautiful  wrists  crossed  like  two  pros 
trate  columns,  fallen  one  above  the  other. 

She  was  a  remarkable  woman.  That  tragic  face  stands 
upon  the  memory  like  a  headland  on  straight  shores. 
The  great  head  with  the  black  bands  of  hair  brushed  smooth 
behind  the  ears,  the  dull  deep  eyes,  the  short  Bismarckian 
nose  and  the  blunt  aggressive  mouth — the  elements  of  a 
countenance  a  master  of  men  might  not  have  disdained. 

Yet  even  at  this  period  of  her  life,  when  youth  lay  in 
the  rear.,  masculinity  did  not  dominate  her  appearance. 
True,  she  had  no  attractions  for  the  mere  man  of  the 
world,  and  too  much  of  gloom  and  unregenerate  power 
brooded  in  those  sullen  features  to  do  aught  but  repel  idle 
youth.  But  with  a  class  of  men  she  hud  always  been  an 
influence.  Men  of  intellect  sought  her.  To  imperious 
wills  like  Gay  she  represented  so  much  of  their  own  force 
that,  while  they  would  marry  a  tenderer  woman,  they  rushed 
to  talk  to  her,  to  unfold  their  supreme  ambitions,  feeling 
that  her  great  mind  would  comprehend  their  scope.  To 
Mr.  Keyes  she  had  never  burnt  incense  of  adulation,  and 
yet  that  delicate  egotist,  beneath  the  sputterings  of  his 


THE  SHADOW  OF  TEE  MILLIONAIRE.  83 

hurt  vanity,  had  conceived  an  admiration  and  even  awe  of 
her,  called  her  habitually  the  "  Medea,"  and  perhaps,  if 
she  had  permitted  him,  would  have  clung  to  her  resolute 
nature  as  intellectual  minds  of  overmuch  sensitiveness  will 
fasten  to  a  virile  femininity.  But  she  repulsed  his  faintest 
advances.  "What  she  held  to  be  the  tragedy  of  her  life  was 
too  closely  associated  with  him. 

Are  there  not  sufferings  of  the  strong,  paroxysms  of  rage 
and  disappointment,  gross  stupors  of  lethargy,  those  at 
tendants  of  excessive  passions,  that  are  crueller  than  any 
torture  the  feeble  feel  in  this  existence?  Do  not  stunted 
powers  and  sealed  capabilities  revenge  their  defeat  on  the 
possessor  and  corrode  the  entrails  ? 

She  had  been  married  when  an  unformed  girl.  When 
first  the  delicate-featured,  blonde  young  clergyman  had 
preached  in  her  native  village,  the  crude  country  girl  fixed 
him  as  an  ideal  point  in  her  realistic  environment.  Even 
then,  plunged  in  the  midst  of  the  vulgarities  and  noxious  de 
tails  of  small-farm  existence,  that  potent  brain  dimly  groped 
towards  thought  and  progress  for  her  after-life.  Beside 
the  agricultural  boors  of  her  acquaintance,  beside  her  own 
somewhat  uncouth  family,  the  fineness  of  the  Eev.  John 
Ballard's  grain  appeared  like  the  soft  texture  of  his  priestly 
broadcloth  upon  the  usual  background  of  overalls  and  high 
boots. 

Mr.  Ballard  preached  a  summer  at  her  town.  He  was 
just  out  from  his  theological  seminary  and  was  waiting  for 
a  settlement.  He  used  to  read  Wordsworth  to  her  during 
the  August  afternoons.  She  studied  a  little  geology  and 
French  with  him.  These  were  their  happiest  days,  a  hy 
phen  of  joy  between  the  unutterable  griefs  of  youth  and 
the  stern  sorrows  of  manhood  and  womanhood.  By  some 
crook  he  was  offered  a  tutorship  in  literature  at  Exmoor 
College.  There  he  went,  and  from  thence  he  came  to  marry 
her  and  thither  lie  took  her.  In  time  he  succeeded  to  the 


84  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

full  chair  of  belles-lettres;  he  had  taste,  but  not  enough  to 
run  away  with  his  orthodoxy,  and  so  was  the  man  for 
the  place  in  the  Puritan  institution.  He  worked  a  life 
time;  he  was  universally  beloved,  his  tender  nature  under 
stood  students'  difficulties  and  old  women's  hysterias.  He 
became  a  sort  of  lay-pastor  for  Exmoor's  humble.  When 
he  died  the  town  mourned. 

In  these  years  of  his  professorship,  Julia  Ballard  had 
grown.  She  had  studied  some  for  herself,  and  she  gathered 
knowledge  and  discipline  from  the  simple  process  of  living, 
as  is  characteristic  of  original  natures.  She  had  shot  a 
great  way  on  the  tracks  of  thought  and  desire  since  she 
came  to  the  college  town  as  a  bride,  passionately  proud  of 
her  young  litterateur.  A  whisper  gathered  credence  with 
the  students  that  the  rugged  phrases,  impact  with  force, 
tanged  with  a  rude  genius  even,  that  here  and  there  star 
tled  the  decorous  sterility  of  Professor  Ballard's  respect 
able  lectures,  owed  their  genesis  to  his  wife.  With  the 
years,  too,  that  face  curtained  into  a  sullen  gloom,  the  eyes 
were  dimmed,  and  the  great  promontories  of  the  features 
emerged  from  the  bloom  of  health  and  youth  into  solid 
relief.  Her  young  beauty  grew  into  a  haughty  Titanese 
effect,  which  the  timid  and  the  ordinary  shrank  from. 
Some  of  the  town  who  had  loved  her  dead  husband 
shunned  her  very  shadow. 

She  had  two  children,  Margaret,  the  eldest,  and  John, 
named  after  his  father.  She  had  never  been  devoted  to 
her  daughter,  who  was  like  the  father,  and  whom  he  had 
principally  brought  up,  since  the  day  her  mother  recognized 
whose  child  she  was.  Margaret  was  beautiful,  an  embodi 
ment  of  that  high,  pure,  marble-pale  Christianity  of  her 
father's  ideal  and  Tennyson's  King  Arthur.  Exmoor 
adored  her,  raged  over  her,  but  the  mother  was  unaf 
fected. 

W^hen  the  boy  came  six  years  after,  he  was  passionately 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  85 

welcomed.  The  sombre,  impassive  face  broke  into  storm 
and  love  over  the  little  squaller.  The  mother  caught  it  up 
in  her  rounded  peasant-arms  and  hugged  it  to  her  face, 
while  the  great  tears  torrented  forth.  Over  that  weak 
baby  mould  all  the  repressed  passion  of  the  tumultuous  soul 
was  hurled  out.  Her  husband  with  his  sensitive  face  looked 
on,  and  the  sharpness  grew  intense  around  his  tremulous 
lips  as  he  beheld  the  ardor  in  the  mother  which  would  no 
longer  greet  him  in  the  wife. 

As  the  children  grew  up,  she  used  to  say,  with  a  sad  smile, 
that  she  had  three  children.  The  great  maternity  of  her 
nature  extended  its  protection  over  the  husband.  Her 
attitude  to  him  became  one  of  compassion — this  woman 
whom  Professor  Clyde  had  once  said  might  play  Brunhild 
to  a  Siegfried.  But  the  fierce  love  she  lavished  on  her  son  ! 
And  that  huge  body  was  put  cheerfully  into  a  hundred 
motions  for  his  pettiest  whims.  She  would  steal  into  his 
sleeping-room  and  sit  for  hours  over  his  trundle-bed,  gaz- ' 
ing  into  his  face  in  an  agony  of  worship,  striving  to  detect 
the  signs  of  coming  strength,  weaving  image-pictures  of 
his  youth  and  manhood,  deciphering,  too,  perhaps,  the  im 
press  of  the  father  there. 

The  boy  grew  up  very  sturdy.  He  was  dark  and  heavy 
like  his  mother,  with  her  solid  brows  and  indolent  limbs. 
The  mother  read  to  him,  studied  with  him,  histories,  liter 
ature,  languages,  elementary  science.  She  carried  him 
through  his  primary  lessons  and  went  at  even  pace  with 
him  in  his  preparation  for  college.  Gradually  the  sug 
gestion  deepened  into  the  certainty  of  shadow  on  her  face, 
and  before  John  was  fourteen  the  old  sullenness  had  re 
gained  its  throne,  and  the  brooding  habit  settled  upon  her 
again  with  a  deadlier  weight,  and  for  longer  periods. 

Oh,  the  stored  hope  in  a  child,  a  life-bark  in  which  a 
mother  heaps  all  her  wealth — her  visions  of  deeds  achieved, 
the  ambitions  of  her  girlhood!  When  the  hard  fates  swal- 


86  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

low  that  last  plank  on  her  waste  ocean  of  life,  despair 
steams  up  as  a  universal  vapor  and  wraps  all  her  skies.  In 
this  boy  she  deemed  herself  re-born  in  a  happier  fortune. 
He  should  run  her  career  by  proxy,  in  him  she  had  stuffed 
all  her  stifled  powers,  before  him  she  knelt  in  renunciation 
for  herself,  which  might  be  accomplishment  in  him — this 
culmination  of  her  life,  this  essence  of  her  passion  and  her 
need,  who  should  do  and  command,  even  as  she  might 
have  done  with  other  sex  or  mated  to  a  strong  man — he, 
her  boy,  her  soul,  was  dormant,  having  the  substratum  of 
her  temperament,  wretched  amalgam  of  her  physical  sto 
lidity  and  bovine  health,  and  of  the  father's  confined  and 
cribbed  intelligence,  that  he  was.  Even  Margaret,  the 
neglected,  was  a  happier  compound  of  chance.  She  cursed 
her  torpid  body,  from  which  her  boy's  slow  solidity  was 
drawn.  His  vacant  eyes  made  her  hate  herself,  where  be 
fore  she  but  hated  fortune.  His  big  stupid  forehead,  she 
had  supposed  to  mask  an  intellect,  irritated  her.  He  be 
came  to  her  as  a  clod  one  stumbles  on  and  damns. 

She  had  put  this  final  conclusion  from  her  for  years. 
She  was  reluctant  to  accept  its  ultimatum.  At  times  she 
even  wished  to  be  deluded.  Something  worthy  of  wor 
ship,  something  grand  to  be  passionate  over  and  to 
sacrifice  self  to,  something  above  prosaic  duty,  which  to 
her  pagan  sense  had  no  appeal !  Julia  Ballard,  like  a 
harassed  animal  that  leaps  from  the  fires  to  the  spears, 
sought  illusion.  For  months  she  lavished  a  rekindled  pas 
sion  on  her  husband;  she  furnished  him  with  dainties; 
begged  to  hear  his  lectures;  strove  to  regard  his  ideas  as 
more  than  ordinary.  She  burnt  him  incense  by  the  bushel, 
but  the  fumes  could  not  transfigure  him  into  a  god.  That 
uncompromising  intellect  shone  through  to  the  facts,  and 
she  could  not  but  face  reality.  It  is  the  peculiar  torture  of 
intellectual  power  that  the  brain  is  emperor,  whether  or  no; 
and  that  it  shifts  the  hated  truth  before  the  desired  fiction, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  87 

as  in  a  theatre  the  prison  scenery  of  the  next  act  is  slid 
before  the  summer  idyl  we  would  clasp  forever. 

The  tremendous  tragedy  of  life  always  lies  in  its  inade 
quate  response  to  our  supreme  desires.  The  conscientious 
soul  who  is  divided  between  love  and  duty,  the  man  of 
pleasure  who  demands  infinite  voluptuousness,  the  being  to 
whom  passion  is  a  necessity  and  who  must  remain  cold,  the 
enthusiast  who  must  bury  the  ideal  in  the  animal  wants  of 
four  hungry  children  and  a  shrewish-tongued  wife — these, 
as  with  the  great  capacity  chained  like  a  trotting-horse  to 
a  vulgar  dray,  find  their  sorrow  in  thwarted  development, 
their  debasing  and  deflowering  rust,  their  mean  and  shabby 
tragedy,  in  the  unanswering  blank  to  their  imperious  neces 
sities. 

This  woman,  with  the  imperial  powers  of  a  Russian  Cath 
arine,  with  the  need  of  command  as  a  rod  to  conduct  to 
safety  the  electricity  of  her  temperament,  was  mired  in  a  * 
marriage  to  a  good  and  limited  nature,  shackled  by  com 
monplace  domesticities,  drugged  with  sordid  cares,  made 
the  mother  of  an  ordinary  family,  and  expected  to  cut  a  re 
spectable  figure  in  the  community.  As  she  said  of  fferself, 
with  her  coarse  characterization,  she  was  "  no  cow  "  and  did 
xiiot  mean  to  become  one. 

The  night  before  he  died,  Professor  Ballard  seemed  a  well 
man.  In  the  pitiful  little  room  upstairs,  over  the  hall, 
which  he  called  his  "  den,"  his  thin  woman-sloping  shoulders 
drooped  over  papers  and  books,  as  they  had  been  doing  in 
unfruitful  toil  for  fifteen  years.  Under  the  dim  yellow 
light  of  his  desk-lamp  the  face  looked  haggard,  and  the 
hand  whose  lean  fingers  strayed  amid  the  papers  shook 
tremulously  with  a  nervous  affection. 

For  an  hour  his  pen  held  on,  sputtering  drunken  ink 
marks  across  fair  sheets.  At  intervals  he  leaned  back  in 
his  chair  and  clasped  his  hands  behind  his  head,  as  if  to 
support  it.  Finally,  he  dropped  his  pen.  It  was  done. 


88  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

He  murmured  to  himself,  "That  is  my  best;  I  can  do 
no  more.  It  is  not  much,  God  knows.  I  wonder  if  God 
expects  any  more  than  the  best  I  can  do.  I  hope  he  is  not 
like  my  wife." 

A  muffled  continuous  knock  at  the  door,  and  before  he 
could  reply  to  its  salutation,  the  door  swung  back  and  Mrs,. 
Ballard  swayed  in  ! 

"  It  is  done/'  he  said,  not  turning  to  her,  but  with  his 
eyes  on  the  desk. 

"Let  me  hear  it,"  she  replied. 

He  read  to  her  the  address  he  was  to  deliver  by  invita 
tion  before  a  Boston  society.  She  made  some  few  suggestions, 
altering  a  word  here  and  a  phrase  there,  touching  it  up  with 
swift  strokes,  as  a  master  does  the  picture  of  a  student. 
At  the  end  she  said  nothing,  but  rose  and  seized  his  pen. 
She  wrote  a  sentence  at  the  bottom  of  the  last  page. 

"  Will  that  not  be  a  better  closing  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  involuntarily,  inwardly  prophetic  of 
the  hour  to-morrow  night  when  the  Bostonese  culture 
would  thrill  at  that  last  clause  of  rugged  power.  The 
vanity  of  it — that  applause  from  men  of  leisure,  who  take 
their  literature  as  a  sort  of  spiritual  champagne!  He,  who 
could  not  convince  his  own  wife  of  his  importance — what 
was  the  prestige  of  a  man  of  letters  to  him  ?  He  knew  his 
little  literary  reputation  was  factitious,  the  result  of  man 
agement  and  chance ;  of  his  residence  in  Exmoor,  and  the 
fact  that  he  never  excited  jealousies.  Oh,  to  be  sure,  he 
had  toiled,  as  only  the  few  toil,  winning  by  dogged  tenacity 
and  the  rigid  faith  of  a  dull  mind  !  and  the  best  world  of 
America  regarded  him  as  an  elegant  and  cultivated  gentle 
man,  perfectly  harmless,  perhaps.  But  beside  that  grand 
head  and  its  undiscovered  greatness,  he  felt  himself  a  mis 
erable  insignificance.  Was  it  not  his  wife  who  wrote  those 
few  sentences  people  selected  to  repeat  and  his  critic-friends 
praised  him  for  ? 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  89 

Mrs.  Ballard  talked  of  other  things;  household  cares; 
that  John  needed  a  new  pair  of  trousers,  and  the  sink  in 
the  kitchen  leaked  in  the  wrong  place.  All  the  while  she 
was  thinking,  If  she  might  go  down  to  Boston,  in  this 
man's  place,  and  lecture  there  before  the  intellect  of  Amer 
ica!  The  fires  of  a  heart  charged  with  suffering  and 
thought  would  then  break  out  in  lightnings,  and  she 
tightened  her  hands  as  she  felt  that  audience  bowing  before 
her  freighted  words.  She  longed  to  mould  that  assembly 
into  tumult  and  into  cheers,  even  as  the  wind  feels  the 
impulse  to  heave  the  ocean  and  hurl  its  floor  into  chaotic 
storm. 

"John,"  she  said,  "you  look  tired  and  need  unbracing 
before  you  go  to  bed.  You  had  better  go  to  see  Mr.  Keyos; 
he  is  always  at  full  blast  at  this  hour.  You  had  better  go." 

She  followed  him  down  to  the  door  and  saw  him  put  on 
his  overcoat  and  round  seal  cap.  When  he  was  gone,  she 
sank  on  the  stairs.  The  moonlight  came  through  the  win 
dow  and  inlaid  the  blackness  with  a  shaft  of  melancholy. 
She  sat  with  her  knees  together,  and  her  hands  clasped 
strenuously  about  them.  She  swayed  herself,  and  a  moan 
came  every  little  while.  The  night  went  on.  At  twelve 
she  heard  her  husband's  feet  grind  the  porch,  and  she 
passed  upstairs  to  her  room,  and  so  escaped  him. 

The  next  night  at  eleven  o'clock  she  opened  the  telegram, 
knowing  what  lay  within  the  envelope.  She  did  not 
stagger.  This  new  fact  hurled  upon  her  seemed  of  little 
significance.  She  was  firm  enough  to  write  a  return-dis 
patch.  She  went  upstairs  calmly,  packed  a  satchel  and 
caught  a  freight  accommodation-train  leaving  Exmoor  at 
six  minutes  after  midnight.  At  Springfield,  she  boarded 
the  express.  She  could  not  sleep.  She  was  aware  of  every 
station  stopped  at,  and  she  almost  counted  the  miles  as 
they  slipped  under  the  thunderous  feet  of  the  train. 

We,  who  live  in  time,  enveloped  in  space,  are  for  the 


90  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

most  part  forbidden  absolute  sight.  Only  sketches  of  the 
road  are  visible,  and  the  hills  of  the  immediate  shut  off  the 
mountains  of  the  grand  facts.  But  this  night  of  travel  un 
hinged  Mrs.  Ballard's  life  from  the  incidental.  She  was  as 
if  hung  between  the  two  syllables  of  her  past  and  future, 
and  the  train  bearing  her  from  the  old  to  the  new  allowed 
her  to  view  her  former  days  as  one  surveys  his  planet  from 
a  balloon.  She  felt  like  an  actor  between  two  scenes, 
alone  in  the  green-room,  released  from  the  imaginations  of 
the  stage,  in  solitude  with  his  own  identity.  She  had  no 
sorrow,  nor  joy.  It  was  the  suspense  of  judgment.  She 
saw  her  life.  She  had  finished  the  first  heat  of  the  race. 
At  forty-three  she  felt  she  had  had  one  existence.  She 
had  lived.  And  this  strange  change  that  had  broken  upon 
her  suddenly — what  was  it?  She  could  not  define  it,  so 
strongly  was  she  impressed  with  the  fact  that  her  old  life 
lay  behind  her;  that  overwhelmed  the  rest.  That  life  of 
hers,  which  was  as  a  thing  she  had  read  about,  she  specu 
lated  over  it  as  she  had  blamed  and  pitied,  loved  and  hated 
the  lives  of  literature.  That  passionate,  wilful,  self-abne 
gating,  burstingly  proud,  and  altogether  sombre  personality, 
which  she  now  contemplated,  apart  from  herself,  inspired 
an  affection  in  her  as  for  someone  without.  She  did  not 
clearly  recognize  it  for  herself.  She  was  so  sorry  for  her! — 
the  powerful,  poor  woman — sorry  for  her,  as  she  was  for 
Komola  or  for  George  Sand. 

So  she  reached  Boston. 

When  she  saw  him  lying  with  the  light  brown  curls 
about  his  weak,  idealistic  face,  a  passion  of  grief  came,  as 
for  a  child  dead.  That  he  was  no  more  to  make  demands 
upon  her,  no  more  to  be  her  thought  and  trouble — that 
smote  her.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  given  birth  to  him.  As 
she  looked  longer  upon  the  dead  face  and  the  immobility 
of  those  once  tremulous  lips,  with  the  little  sad  smile  upon 
them  now  which  they  had  worn  these  latter  years,  a  pity 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.         91 

seized  upon  her.  She  bent  her  head  and  drew  him 
close  in  her  arms.  "  Oh,  my  poor  boy,  my  poor  boy!  "  she 
said. 

She  took  him  back  home.  They  buried  him  on  those 
bulky  hills  which  the  north  wind  desolates  in  winter,  and 
the  tender  spring  pads  with  green,  and  the  ripe  autumn 
decorates  with  gold  and  russet  and  crimson.  The  genius 
of  those  cloudy  places  comfort  him — him,  so  valiantly  per 
sistent,  in  his  methodic,  cabined  way  ! 

She  missed  him.  We  miss  the  most  uncomfortable  hab 
its.  That  familiar  figure  whose  coming  in  the  afternoon 
about  four  o'clock  she  had  listened  for,  for  twenty-one 
years;  that  little  desire  expressed  ten  times  a  day — all  these 
she  awaited  mechanically,  and  started  when  she  remem 
bered. 

She  had  to  clear  up  his  "  den  "  and  go  over  his  papers. 
A  great  compassion  welled  up.  Here  was  the  chair  he  had 
sat  in  and  toiled  in.  This  meagre  little  room — was  it  not 
the  shell  of  a  very  meagre  life  ?  She  went  over  his  books ; 
and  as  she  noted  each,  and  the  data  of  its  acquisition,  writ 
ten  in  his  thin,  straggling  hand  on  the  blank  page,  the 
detached  pieces  of  his  career  came  before  her.  All  the 
lonesomeness  of  the  man,  since  she  had  fallen  out  of  active 
co-operation  with  him  ;  all  the  daily  struggle  against  hope 
that  he  might  attain,  and  so  please  her;  all  his  jealousy  of 
Keyes,  and  all  his  eagerness  after  literary  notoriety;  all  his 
petty  shams  and  simulations  of  emotions  he  admired  and 
of  the  eccentricities  of  great  men, — they  ranged  themselves 
in  front  of  her  and  dovetailed  together  to  make  complete 
the  pitiful  personality.  Somehow  they  lifted  his  mediocrity 
to  the  pathetic.  Was  it  true  that  he  too  had  carried  his 
tragedy  around  with  him?  The  poignant  griefs  done  his 
vanity,  the  dissatisfaction  of  unattainable  ideals — what  a 
poor  starved  soul  it  was  !  She  pictured  him  here,  stagger 
ing  night  after  night  alone,  without  a  real  friend  to  share 


92  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

the  secret  of  his  sorrow,  facing  existence  without  a  murmur 
and  the  denying  fates  without  protest.  For  the  first  time 
she  conceived  the  sufferings  of  barren  natures,  of  impris 
oned  souls,  of  spirits  that  have  neither  wings,  nor  legs,  nor 
hands, — bodies  without  movement,  life  without  voice. 
Was  it  true — had  she,  selfishly  blind,  walked  over  this 
tragedy  of  the  commonplace  ?  Of  the  two,  him  and  herself, 
which  paid  the  dearer,  which  suffered  the  deeper  ?  She  had 
cherished  her  own  tragedy,  she  had  anointed  herself,  in 
her  own  eyes,  as  a  superior  being  bound  to  clogs  like  him; 
but  which,  after  all,  was  the  honester  sufferer  ?  The  pas 
sionate  strength  rebelling  and  with  an  element  of  the  po 
etic  in  its  high-stepping  dramatics,  or  the  cribbed  intelli 
gence,  aware  of  its  mean  measure,  the  aching  vanity 
stabbed  by  her  every  day,  and  yet  bravely  silent — oh, 
which? 

Mrs.  Ballard  repelled  comforters.  To  the  commonplace 
condolence  the  marble  of  her  face  never  relented.  Half 
Exmoor  was  furious  that  she  should  take  so  coldly  the 
death  of  one  so  loved,  so  saintly,  whose  secret  deeds  of 
kindness  had  bound  many  hearts. 

But  his  widow  walked  the  streets  in  majestic  mourning, 
and  the  rigid  calm  of  her  features  was  stone  to  the  would- 
be  wipers  of  tears.  Mrs.  Morton,  whose  business  in  this 
world  was  to  attend  funerals  and  haunt  the  houses  of 
mourning  for  a  year  thereafter,  was  repulsed  summarily. 
The  widow  received  her  in  a  high  manner,  said  not  one 
word  to  her  sympathetic  tears,  her  sighs,  her  "  reposings 
in  the  Lord's  bosom,"  her  "  beautiful  voyage  in  this  evil 
world."  The  widow  was  granite,  and  when  opportunity 
offered,  slipped  in  the  interstices  of  Mrs.  Morton's  speech 
cool  wedges  of  "  fine  weather " — "  I  am  informed  Dr. 
Ponder  has  finished  his  Syriac  lectures" — "  Professor  Mor 
ton  is  conducting  a  new  chemical  experiment,  is  he  not?" 
• — "  There  is  a  report  of  the  engagement  of  Miss  Jane 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  93 

Halding  to  a  Mr.  Gingham  of  Leeds,  son  of  the  great 
woollen  magnate/' 

As  Mrs.  Morton  afterwards  affirmed,  "  The  wicked  ice 
berg  talked  as  if  she  had  just  been  entertaining  pleasure 
instead  of  death  in  her  house/' 

But  alone,  she  had  paroxysms  of  remorse,  of  despair,  that 
left  her  moribund,  so  that  she  lay  on  her  bed  for  days  to 
gether,  perfectly  impassive,  torpid,  utterly  drained  of  en 
ergy.  Sometimes  at  night  her  dead  husband's  face  stood 
written  upon  the  dark  with  the  poor  wan  smile  and  the  suf 
fering  in  his  eyes.  Then  she  would  remember  him  as  at 
first  she  knew  him.  She  recalled  his  enthusiastic  spirit, 
when  first  he  came  to  Exmoor,  and  the  blithe  joy  he  had  in 
his  new  duties.  And  the  dark  transition  from  that  youth 
to  the  thing  he  died  seemed  due  to  her.  This  impression 
was  vivid;  she  even  nursed  it,  wearing  it  as  a  mental  sack 
cloth. 

When  Mrs.  Lancaster  called,  after  the  funeral,  Margaret 
met  her  at  the  door. 

"  Mamma  is  upstairs,  but  I  will  call  her.  I'm  so  glad 
you  came,  dear  Mrs.  Lancaster.  She  has  been  depressed 
for  the  last  two  days,  and  I  think  seeing  you  will  do  her 
good."  These  two  were  elective  affinities.  They  were  but 
varieties  of  the  same  type.  The  tall  girl  with  her  sweet 
stateliness  would  develop  into  a  blonde  and  majestic  wo 
man,  with  all  of  Mrs.  Lancaster's  air  of  selection.  Mrs 
Lancaster  loved  her  and  encouraged  Julian's  admiration. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  sat  down  in  the  dark  parlor.  As  she 
waited,  life  seemed  to  her  a  theatre  for  religious  joy,  and 
the  mysteries  which  border  it  were  filled  with  beauties. 

Above,  Margaret  pleaded  in  a  darkened  chamber.  On 
the  bed  the  widow's  figure  lay  extended,  the  arms  thrown 
out  stiffly,  and  the  head,  with  its  masses  of  coarse  black 
hair,  half  buried  in  the  pillows. 

"0    mamma,   do  come  down!      Dear  mamma,    come, 


94  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

please!  I  know  it  will  do  you  good;  you  will  feel  better 
afterwards." 

The  girl  stood  in  her  pleading.  She  dared  not  go  near 
her  prostrate  mother. 

"  Mrs.  Lancaster  is  so  good  and  lovely,  and  she  knows 
how  to  comfort.  Please  come,  there's  a  dear  mamma !  She 
helped  me  so,  and  when  I  felt  rebellious,  she  showed  me  it 
was  God's  will^and  how  it  was  good;  that  everything  that 
happens  is  really  good.  Please  come,  rnamma!" 

Still  no  movement.  The  girl  persisted.  At  last  there 
was  a  tremor  of  the  pillows,  and  the  bed  creaked  heavily. 
Margaret  shrank  back  to  the  door  at  the  resurrection 
caused  by  her  incantation. 

"  Tell  the  neutrality  down  there  I'll  come/'  said  Mrs. 
Ballard,  rising  from  the  bed  and  groping  with  her  feet  for 
her  slippers  underneath. 

"0  mamma!"  gasped  Margaret,  at  the  blunt  d^signa- 
tion  of  Mrs.  Lancaster.  In  a  moment  she  resumed,  "  Will 
you  let  me  help  you  ?  I  can  get  you  ready  so  much  sooner." 
Still  she  did  not  advance  from  the  door. 

"  No,  go  downstairs,  and  entertain  her  until  I  come. 
You  two  are  enough  alike,  and  I  sha'n't  hurry  myself.'' 

The  daughter  went,  down-hearted.  She  did  not  under 
stand  this  revolt.  Her  mother  was  a  Christian,  surely!  Why 
then  was  she  not  resigned  ?  This  boisterous  grief  shocked 
Margaret's  delicacy  by  its  base  vulgarity;  it  might  have 
been  a  washerwoman's  sorrow. 

Mrs.  Ballard  entered  the  parlor  abruptly,  like  a  projectile. 
She  extended  her  hand  without  a  word.  Margaret  slipped 
out  unseen;  she  wanted  to  leuve  them  alone  together. 

The  two  women  sat  down  opposite  each  other,  Mrs.  Bal 
lard  on  the  sofa  with  her  arms  folded,  swaying  her  body. 
They  were  complete  contrasts.  Medea  and  the  Madonna 
sat  over  against  each  other — one  an  exploding  vessel  of  pas 
sion;  the  other,  a  steady  tapering  craft,  anchored  in  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  95 

haven  of  secure  love  and  well-considered  habit.  They  had 
never  been  intimate,  and  Mrs.  Lancaster  had  always  secretly 
irritated  the  other. 

In  this  presence  Mrs.  Ballard  hardened.  All  the  resent 
ment  against  the  tranquil  and  prosperous  world,  which 
years  of  hidden  anger  and  disappointment  had  secreted, 
gathered  to  a  head  of  hate  against  this  gracious  blonde 
woman,  with  her  patrician  mien  and  bronze  hair.  Mrs. 
Lancaster's  soft,  dulcet,  inflected  voice  was  a  jagging  spur 
to  the  other's  envious  contempt. 

In  her  sympathy,  Mrs.  Lancaster  leaned  towards  her 
"  sister  in  sorrow."  Her  gentle  eyes  rilled  as  she  spoke 
compassionate  sentences.  She  felt  she  did  not  comprehend 
this  terrible  grief,  but  she  supposed  it  had  the  usual  causes, 
and  so  she  offered  the  usual  ointments  and  oils  convention 
deals  out  to  the  afflicted.  She  recounted  the  virtues  of  the 
dead,  how  he  had  lived  life  seriously  and  well,  and  had  at 
tempted  to  put  into  deed  his  highest  conception.  . 

"How  appropriate,"  she  said,  "that  he  should  die  in 
the  service  of  literature,  which  he  considered  so  helpful  to 
man!  It  was  the  flower  of  his  life,  the  final  blossoming  of 
his  best  hours  and  thought  and  faith — was  it  not  ? — that 
lecture  upon  Wordsworth,  which  he  was  delivering  when 
he  fell.  You  ought  to  be  comforted  that  he  left  life  at 
that  precise  moment,  with  words  of  reverence  upon  his  lips, 
pointing  men  to  beauty  and  to  moral  truth." 

So  Mrs.  Lancaster  went  on,  while  the  stern  mask  she 
addressed  curtained  a  hundred  bitter,  cynical  or  remorse 
ful  thoughts.  Yes,  that  lecture,  Mrs.  Ballard  thought, 
the  one  she  herself  had  primed  him  on ! — she  knew  all  the 
affectations  and  vanities  and  simulations  stuffed  into  its 
tissue.  How  the  Boston  papers  had  praised  it,  when  they 
published,  on  the  first  page  in  the  middle  of  the  sheet, 
how  he  had  fallen  down  paralyzed,  just  as  he  closed  with 
that  last  great  striking  phrase!  Much  source  of  consola- 


96  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

tion  she  had,  indeed — she,  who  had  driven  him  to  death 
by  work  at  that  very  lecture,  and  then  let  him  go  off 
at  last,  without  one  word  of  approval  for  all  his  intense 
labor! 

Mrs.  Lancaster  trotted  up  the  ambulance  of  religion. 
But  what  had  she,  an  unbeliever,  a  pagan,  a  hater  of  hu 
mility  and  acquiescence,  to  do  with  such  milk-and-water 
doctrines?  They  would  do  for  Margaret,  perhaps.  This 
passionless  blonde,  with  mere  milk  in  her  veins,  she  could 
be  resigned !  She  could  easily  look  back  over  her  tranquil 
life  and  contemplate  it  with  serenity,  as  a  calm  sun  looks 
back  down  the  valley  he  has  illumined  and  suffuses  its 
length  with  a  mellow  light  and  a  good-night  kiss.  This 
gentle  nature,  what  knew  she  of  conflicts,  of  desire  ?  To  this 
home-tender,  who  was  respectable  and  aristocratic  and  re 
fined,  what  were  strains  of  strength  tugging  at  the  heart 
strings,  ambition  leaping  like  a  vaulting  battle-steed,  jeal 
ousy,  and  hate  and  despair — what  knew  she  of  these,  and 
how  could  such  as  she  console  ?  Rich,  with  position,  living 
with  people  she  loved  and  reverenced,  without  problems, 
drifting  along  the  slumberous  tide  of  her  lot,  blessed  with 
the  unquestioning  devoted  faith  of  a  tender  and  limited 
woman,  she  was  happy  in  her  very  melancholy. 

Suddenly  Julia  Ballard's  veins  grew  swollen  with  hate. 
Why  should  this  woman  have  everything — this  doll,  this 
waxen  creature  ? 

"I,  that  struggled  and  fought  with  beasts,  that  was 
strenuous  enough  to  desire  greatly,  and  was  passionate  to 
do  much  with  my  life,  to  make  it  avail  much  for  men — I, 
that  had  laboring  ambitions  and  many  talents,  and  whose 
great  longing  was  to  use  them  for  the  best  and  highest — 
lo!  I  am  come  to  these — prostration,  remorse,  bitterness, 
stultification !" 

Mrs.  Lancaster  was  saying,  "There  is  comfort  in  res 
ignation.  Be  meek,  my  poor  sister,  even  as  your  Saviour 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  97 

was  at  Gethsemane.     Bend  like  the  reed,  and  the  storm 
will  blow  over  you." 

"Stop!"  Julia  Ballard  commanded.  She  rose,  and  the 
old,  grand,  pagan,  unregenerate  nature  flamed  from  her 
countenance.  She  cried  savagely,  "  I  am  tired  of  such 
babble.  Tell  it  to  babies  and  weaklings,  and  such  as  you 
are  yourself  !  You — weak  inconsequential ! — that  may  heal 
your  wounds;  but  not  mine.  I  am  not  tender,  nor  gentle, 
nor  resigned.  You,  who  have  no  iron  in  your  thin  blood, 
all  that  stuff  is  for  you!  Do  you  hear? — for  you  !  But  to 
attempt  to  console  me  with  humilities  and  meekness!  I'll 
have  none  of  it.  I  will  fight  it  out.  Combat,  dense  and 
hard,  that  is  what  I  prefer;  and  when  I  go,  I'll  break  like 
a  tower,  not  crumble  into  passivity  and  miserable  Christian 
meekness." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  had  started  from  her  seat  in  amazement. 
Now, -she  feared!     The  blasphemy  was  awful;  she  started  ' 
back  from  it.     Oh,  it  was  dreadful,  shocking!    How  could 
one  conceive  of  it,  much  more  give  it  utterance  ? 

The  fear  and  disgust  on  Mrs.  Lancaster's  face  maddened 
Julia  Ballard.  She  turned  upon  the  stiff  woman  with 
these  words: 

"  You  have  no  passion  and  no  despair.  You  do  not 
know  what  it  is  to  long  for  a  great  love  and  never  receive  it. 
You  have  no  capacity,  except  for  placidity  and  domestic 
things;  in  them,  of  course,  you  are  admirable;  you  are  re 
spected,  men  admire  the  folds  of  the  crape  about  your  peachy 
neck,  and  your  elegant  figure,  so  erect  and  gracious.  You 
pass  for  a  lady  and  a  good  woman — for  a  cultivated  person 
age,  while  I  am  hated  because  I'm  sincere;  called  coarse  be 
cause  I'm  able  to  define  terms  exactly;  my  intellect  not  even 
acknowledged,  because  I  hammer  people's  prejudices." 

These  words  were  delivered  standing,  in  low,  stinging 
tones,  repeated  precisely,  fired  into  Mrs.  Lancaster,  as  a 
regiment  at  practice  volleys  into  the  targets.  The  woman 


98  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

chose  to  array  against  each  other  in  absolute  terms  the 
distinctive  qualities  of  her  antagonist  and  of  herself. 
But  here  her  passions  leaped  the  logic  of  her  hate,  and 
swept  out  in  fierce  ejaculations  and  vivid  personalities. 
She  advanced  a  stride  towards  Mrs.  Lancaster,  one  arm 
thrust  out,  and  rage  distorting  her  countenance. 

"  You,  you  sweet  innocence,  you  select  child  of  God,  you 
passive  receptacle  of  peace ! — you  can  afford  to  be  good  and 
generous;  in  fact,  you  can't  help  it,  you  are  too  neutral 
to  be  otherwise.  You!  do  they  call  you  refined,  cultivated, 
the  acme  of  womanhood  ?  Humph!  you  are  merely  booted 
and  gloved  in  kid — that's  all.  You  haven't  enough  blood 
to  understand  what  I  mean,  I  suppose.  Oh,  I've  heard 
you  prate  over  Shakespeare  and  all  his  passionate  hero 
ines;  I've  seen  your  eyes  moist  over  Gretchen  praying  to 
the  Virgin  hung  on  the  wall;  I've  seen  you  sorry  for  poor 
Maggie  Tulliver — you  insufferable  pretence!  Don't  you 
understand  that  those  poor,  unwise,  gifted  souls  are  out  of 
your  Qxistence,  totally  foreign  to  your  grave,  religious, 
cistern  peace  ?  You  wretched,  sham-posturer  in  passions, 
you  haven't  enough  purple  heart-blood  to  feel!  You  im 
passivity,  you  righteous  neutrality!" 

Mrs.  Ballard  paused,  all  a-tremble,  like  one  who  has  let 
loose  a  force  too  strong  to  be  governed.  The  morbidities 
and  revolt  of  years  were  in  her  imprecations,  and  Mrs.  Lan 
caster  was  but  the  occasion,  the  wire  that  drew  the  light 
ning. 

Mrs.  Lancaster  feared  that  a  madwoman  confronted  her. 
These  mingled  defamations  and  despairs  seemed  insane. 
She  moved  quietly  to  the  door.  "  I  am  going,  Mrs.  Bal 
lard.  I  came  with  the  best  intentions;  and  I  am  sorry  for 
this  treatment,  not  for  my  sake,  but  for  yours."  She  had 
forgotten  her  terror  of  insanity  by  this  time.  "  But  after 
this,  you  can  hardly  expect  me  to  call  again,  or  that  I 
should  care  to  see  you  in  our  house."  After  an  interval, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  99 

in  which  she  looked  at  Mrs.  Ballard,  now  limp  and  inert: 
"  I  am  very  sorry  for  you,  so  very  sorry !  I  don't  know  that 
I  can  understand  you,  but  believe  me,  I  am  sorry."  She 
turned  to  go. 

"Oh!  wait  a  moment,  an  instant — forgive  me!"  Mrs. 
Ballard  broke  into  tears.  "I  did  not  mean  what  I  said — 
yes,  I  did,  too !  But  it  was  not  you — not  you,  so  much  as 
the  world,  the  world!  Forgive  me!  forgive  me!"  Only 
say  you  will  forget  this  and  forgive  me  !  I  am  utterly 
broken  down.  That  head  is  ever  before  me,  floating  in  the 
dark.  It  wavers,  it  lies  in  the  corners  and  leers  at  my 
spoiled,  maimed  life.  Oh,  you  will  forgive  me!  will  you 
not  ?  and  give  me  a  little  compassion— some  of  that  sym 
pathy,  that  human  sympathy,  I  have  never  had,  nor  asked 
for  before  ?" 

Julia  Ballard  entreated  with  outstretched,  beseeching 
arms.  The  proud  face,  but  a  moment  ago  instinct  with 
hate  and  haughty  pain,  melted  now,  all  the  iron  gone  out 
of  it.  She  felt  a  child's  need  of  protection,  and  she  threw 
herself  blindly  at  the  feet  of  the  woman  whom  she  had 
scorned  into  ladylike  resentment. 

"Of  course,  of  course,  Mrs.  Ballard,  I'll  forgive  you;  but 
it  was  dreadful,  it  was  awful!  I  hope  this  will  never  occur 
again.  Of  course  you  are  forgiven.  Don't  cry  any  more 
about  it." 

The  abused  lady  maintained  her  stiff  post  by  the  door, 
ready  to  go.  She  was  a  Christian,  and  she  was  glad  her 
derider  was  humble  before  her  God,  repenting  her  blasphe 
mies. 

Julia  Ballard  on  her  knees  buried  her  face  on  the  sofa. 
The  great  sobs  tore  up.  through  her  throat  and  choked  her. 
She  was  rilled  with  self-pity  and  weakness.  The  superfi 
cial  self,  acquired  through  habit,  was  suddenly  thrown  off 
and  for  the  time  the  real  nature  held  sway.  The  imperious 
necessity  for  love,  for  absorption,  for  a  grand  passion,  that 


100  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

was  at  bottom  the  sovereign  motive  in  her  character, 
quivered  bare,  like  a  nerve  laid  naked  of  flesh. 

The  patrician-bred  woman  surveyed  the  stooped  head 
and  the  huddled  shoulders.  The  colossal  force  of  such 
passions  was  somewhat  vulgar;  she  had  not  known  they 
existed  before;  she  was  not  fond  of  such  vociferous  displays. 
She  had  no  tenderness  for  this  woman  who  had  insulted 
her,  and  though  she  a  little  pitied  her  and  forgave  her  as  a 
Christi  an 'forgives,  she  could  not  take  the  fallen  head  in 
her  lap  and  wipe  away  the  scalding  tears.  Mrs.  Lancaster 
fulfilled  her  duty,  she  scattered  platitudes  of  comfort,  in 
the  air,  above  the  prostrate  form. 

After  a  while  the  sobs  ceased.  There  was  a  long  silence. 
Julia  Ballard  had  time  to  feel  shame  for  her  outbreak. 
"Without  raising  her  head,  she  said  in  a  low  voice  :- 

"Go,  please,  dear  Mrs.  Lancaster.  You  forgive  me  and 
that  is  enough.  Go!  please  go!  and  leave  me  alone.  You 
are  a  good  woman,  and  true,  and  deserve  all  you  have.  I 
know  it.  But  go — go!  You  cannot  understand,  you  cannot 
know." 

Again  she  wept.  .The  unreciprocated  passion  of  a  life, 
all  the  life-loneliness  of  a  soul  never  yet  understood,  stood 
imaged  in  her  request. 

Mrs.  'Lancaster  was  glad  to  be  gone.  And,  although  she 
was  a  lady  with  a  code  of  honor  and  never  let  mention  of 
the  scene  pass  her  lips,  she  always  regarded  Mrs.  Ballard 
henceforth  as  something  of  a  monster. 

Such  was  the  woman  who  influenced  Mr.  Gay. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  101 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"AN"D  STRAIGHT  WAS  THE  PATH  OF  GOLD  FOE  HIM." 

THE  company  at  Mrs.  Keyes's  broke  up  early,  as  was  the 
custom  in  Exmoor. 

In  the  room  where  the  gentlemen's  overcoats  and  hats 
littered  the  bed  and  draped  the  chairs  and  the  towel-rack, 
the  secretary  addressed  Julian  in  his  light  bantering  way. 

"What  do  you  say  to  a  smoke  and  a  slow  walk  home, 
my  handsome  friend  ?  A  soporific  cigar  will  just  lay  the 
wakeful  spirit  and  allow  me  a  good  balmy  sort  of  a  sleep!" 

"  I'm  with  you,"  answered  Julian.  "  Did  Jane  Hald- 
ing  so  stir  you  up,  you  can't  sleep  ?  She  is  regular  cham 
pagne,  though — Mumm's  Extra  Dry!" 

The  young  fellow  had  a  consciousness  that  he  was  speak 
ing  like  a  man  of  the  world.  They  stepped  out  of  doors 
and  stopped  to  "  light  up." 

"But  didn't  I  play  the  utterly-utter  devoted?"  lisped 
the  secretary. 

"  Well,  you  did !  I  really  am  afraid  for  Miss  Halding, 
who  is  a  flirt,  but  not  used  to  opposing  her  own  tactics. 
Besides,  she  is  susceptible — and  then  a  New  Yorker  like 
you !" 

Julian  said  these  words  jocosely  and  they  seemed  to  him 
witty. 

They  laughed  and  walked  out  of  the  yard.  After  the 
preliminary  puffs  necessary  to  establish  a  firm  fire,  the 
secretary  said,  his  cigar  between  his  teeth, 

"  Did  you  ever  deliberately  set  out  to  break  a  woman 
up — go  at  her  with  the  fixed  determination  to  get  her  in 


102  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

love  with  you — just  to  try  your  power  and  see  if  you 
could?" 

He  seemed  to  imply  that  such  action  in  a  man  was  fine 
and  rather  superior,  evincing  a  kind  of  scientific  curiosity, 
such  as  physicians  have  when  they  torture  dogs,  or  Goethes 
when  they  play  on  Frederikas.  His  question,  while  suggest 
ing  a  confidence  as  if  from  himself,  was  in  reality  sent  out 
as  a  fathom-line  to  sound  the  young  man. 

"  You  mean  without  regarding  the  girl  herself — in  cold 
blood  ?"  queried  Julian. 

"  Exactly,"  answered  the  other,  sententiously. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have,"  answered  Julian,  reluctantly, 
as  if  he  wished  he  could  confess  as  much.  "  It  must  be 
quite  a  sensation,"  he  added  in  a  different  tone. 

"  Ah!  he's  not  such  a  prude,"  thought  the  secretary.  "A 
little  experience  and  diminution  of  ideality,  and  he'll  do." 

The  worldling  catalogued  men  into  neat  categories. 
There  were  swells,  duffers  and  men  of  gumption.  He  had 
about  made  up  his  mind  that  Julian  would  fall  under  the 
last  head.  At  all  events,  he  was  not  a  duffer. 

"  What  made  you  think  of  that  ?"  asked  Julian,  naively, 
"  Miss  Halding  ?" 

"  Not  in  particular,"  answered  the  secretary.  "  But  she 
would  make  a  scene,  since  you  speak  of  her.  She'd  be 
worthy  a  man's  best  effort,  she's  so  keen.  I  tell  you  it 
would  be  steel  across  steel  with  her.  I  should  like  nothing 
better  than  to  get  her  gone  on  a  man." 

( '  She  is  attractive,"  admitted  Julian. 

" She  is  not  beautiful.  But  such  fire  and  nerve!  She'd 
be  immensely  more  interesting  than  lots  of  handsome 
women,"  said  the  secretary. 

"  '  Sweet'  describes  her,"  thought  Julian. 

And  all  at  once  he  became  conscious  of  her  winsome 
ways.  She  stood  before  his  mind — the  slim  girl  with  the 
narrow  hips  and  boy's  bust!  He  remembered  her  little 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  103 

airy  graces  and  the  peculiar  pechant  play  of  her  thin  arms. 
He  saw  the  gesturing  movement  of  her  slight  shoulders, 
and  the  child-dimples,  and  the  wan,  nervous  little  mouth, 
and  the  innocent  gayety  and  sadness  of  her  blue-gray  eyes. 
He  wished  to  protect  her.  In  the  darkness  he  felt  the 
vigorous  animal  at  his  side;  the  aggressive  nose  and  the 
blunt  carnal  lips  of  the  man.  Was  this  Mignon  of  Exmoor 
to  suffer  by  reason  of  this  earthen  one  ? 

"  The  best  way  to  enjoy  a  woman  is  to  conquer  her. 
Passion  has  no  proper  reason  for  existing,"  the  secretary's 
dissertation  broke  coldly  in.  "Love  is  like  the  blinders  of 
a  horse,  it  shuts  out  two-thirds  of  a  woman  from  the  poor 
fool's  sight.  Besides,  if  you  feel,  you  suffer;  and  the  per 
fection  of  the  whole  thing  is  when  she  feels  and  you  look 
on." 

The  secretary  recounted  a  few  instances  of  his  successes 
with  women.  Nothing  brings  men  together  more  quickly. 
He  caused  Julian  to  finally  admit  his  own  invincible  at 
tractiveness  to  females.  Like  men,  the  two  experienced  a 
sense  of  rivalry  and  strove  to  overmatch  the  other's  narra 
tive.  Though  the  younger  could  not  approach  the  older's 
tale,  yet  he  produced  enough  to  excite  a  worldling's  re 
spect. 

Youth  and  occasion  were  bringing  one  of  those  swift 
intimacies,  which  are  not  friendships,  and  yet  in  which 
men  confess  much. 

They  drifted  on  in  their  talk,  remarking  about  this 
thing  and  that,  speaking  of  people  the  secretary  had  met 
in  Exmoor.  They  mentioned  Keyes. 

"  What  an  old  crank  that  celebrity  of  yours  is,  anyway ! 
I  suppose  to  know  him  is  about  equal  to  having  shaken  paws 
with  Emerson.  Won't  I  reap  prestige  in  New  York,  now 
I've  been  dined  by  the  great — 'critic/  isn't  it?  But  after 
all,  I'd  like  to  know  his  positive  use,  outside  of  any  orna 
mentals." 


104  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

"  Why,  literature,"  gasped  Julian. 

Mancutt,  who  never  read  and  who  had  no  idea  of  "  The 
Function  of  Criticism/'  said  bluntly:  "  He  told  me  himself 
that  he  almost  wished  he  had  gone  into  active  life  and  had 
a  little  money  now  in  his  old  age  to  do  as  he  pleased  with. 
Why  the  deuce  didn't  he  go  into  something  and  coin 
shekels  anyway,  instead  of  cultivating  his  hair  ?" 

"His  wife  is  rich.  He  must  have  been  talking  to  you, 
that  is  all — a  way  of  his.  He  really  thinks  the  sensible 
question  would  be,  '  Why  don't  you  business  men  shut  up 
your  ledgers  and  cultivate  your  minds,  sense  of  beauty  and 
that  sort  of  thing  ? ' "  answered  Julian. 

"  He's  a  crank.  Should  think  he'd  cut  his  hair,  what 
ever  else  he  failed  to  do,"  muttered  the  secretary. 

He  had  the  American's  aversion  for  peculiarity,  or  any 
individual  differentiation  from  the  uniform  pattern  of 
man,  which  democracy  cuts  out  and  measures  every  one  by. 
Strange  result! — the  most  individualistic  civilization  in 
history  is  as  intolerant  of  originality  as  the  Chinese.  Pub 
lic  opinion,  public  decrees  on  manner  and  dress  and 
speech,  has  grown  a  tyrant.  Live  within  the  limits  and 
you  are  free,  but  what  a  restricted  freedom,  what  a  cur 
tailed  personality,  allowed  any  one  of  us!  "Crank" — it  is 
the  opprobrium  the  dominant  average  casts  on  all  great 
ness  that  exceeds  itself,  as  on  all  eccentricity  that  lies 
beneath  it.  New  York,  which  makes  a  community  a  col 
lection  of  unsympathetic  units,  resents  all  superiority,  all 
departures  from  the  respectable  type.  No  wonder  we  lack 
great  men. 

Keyes,  the  long-haired  eccentric,  suggested  his  antithe 
sis — smooth  and  average  New  York.  The  secretary  said  : 
"  In.  New  York  friction  rubs  a  man  into  civilized  habits. 
There  isn't  enough  elbow-room  there  to  allow  any  growth 
of  crankiness.  You'd  better  come  to  New  York,  Mr. 
Clyde.  You  look  as  if  you  were  built  for  it.  Life  is 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  105 

gloriously  real  there  ;  a  day  of  it  contains  a  month  of  Ex- 
moor  sensations.  These  literary  fellows,  who  stand  off  and 
watch  life,  never  get  the  true  taste  of  it.  Of  course  it 
takes  nerve  to  go  into  the  world,  but  the  fight  is  beautiful. 
There  are  so  many  splendid  men  there,  brainy  fellows  with 
big  hearts,  whose  dress  is  irreproachable,  and  address  to 
match.  You  people  up  here  don't  even  know  how  to 
eat.  You  come  down  to  New  York,  and  I'll  set  you 
up  a  Delmonico  dinner,  such  as  you  never  saw  in  New 
England." 

Julian  listened  to  the  panegyric  of  the  secretary  with  a 
feeling  that  Exmoor  was  weighed  and  found  wanting. 

The  two  men  had  each  a  respect  and  a  contempt  for  the 
other.  Mancutt  bowed  to  something  called  culture,  which 
he  felt  was  one  of  the  many  moonshines  and,  consequently, 
to  be  deferred  to,  but  the  naivete  of  the  young  tutor 
amused  him,  and  after  all,  the  only  thing  the  secretary  really 
respected  was  "  knowingness."  Julian  was  impressed  with 
his  companion's  world-knowledge ;  but  he  had  the  con 
tempt  of  a  man  of  letters  for  the  secretary's  amazing  funda 
mental  ignorance.  Knowledge  of  men  and  that  adroit 
adaptability  to  new  environment,  which  comes  with  a  vast 
experience  to  one  of  native  wit,  goes  far  and  veils  much  ; 
yet  the  secretary's  very  suppleness  led  him  into  exposures 
of  his  superficialness,  of  which  he  was  altogether  unaware. 
"One  of  the  barbarians  of  New  York,"  Keyes  afterwards 
defined  him  to  Julian. 

Mancutt,  indeed,  had  no  more  extended  conception  of 
society  than  a  horse  has  of  his  stable.  In  society  he  fed 
and  slept  and  fought  and  gained  money  and  spent  it. 
But  why  lie  was  in  it,  or  wherefore  any  established  fact  was 
so,  and  not  otherwise,  he  had  no  more  impulse  to  inquire 
than  the  mule,  born  in  a  mine,  has  of  asking  after  the  sun 
which  he  has  never  seen.  Maucutt  simply  accepted  things 
and  made  himself  as  comfortable  as  possible. 


106  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

The  morning  after  the  reception  Mr.  Gay  came  down 
stairs  in  a  mood  like  his  name.  He  felt  well  with  himself  ; 
he  was  about  to  conquer  this  new  world  presented  before 
him.  He  would  swallow  Exmoor  at  a  gulp,  institution,  pro 
fessors,  the  fame  of  the  town  and  all,  planking  down  the 
coin,  placarding  the  whole  with  the  dingy  green  of  his  bank 
notes.  He  was  strongly  desirous  of  owning  a  college.  Yes, 
they  all  let  the  drawbridge  fall  and  heaved  up  the  port 
cullis  before  the  battle-front  of  his  stocks  ;  even  this  last 
world  of  exclusive  traditions,  this  Exmoor  that  boasted  its 
literary  and  philosophic  spirit  and  its  standard  of  culture, 
succumbed  at  his  nod.  How  the  professors  and  unique 
nesses  had  thronged  to  kiss  the  hand  of  this  pious  pillager, 
who  rifled  Wall  Street  and  paid  pastors'  salaries  by  the 
score  over  all  the  country!  At  bottom  of  this  masterly 
mechanism,  concealed  within  the  cogs  and  pistons  of  this 
embodied  geometry  of  brokerage,  smouldered  a  cold  passion 
for  mastery.  Exmoor  was  a  new  land  to  be  won,  and  her 
culture,  that  vaunted  itself  superior  to  mere  commerce,  was 
a  new  subject  to  be  thrown  or  cajoled  into  subjection  to 
that  Napoleonic  egoism,  even  as  the  stock-market,  Knick 
erbocker  society,  his  obstreperous  son-in-law,  had  in  their 
turn  been  subdued. 

Mr.  Gay  walked  into  the  parlor.  Julian  was  there  read 
ing.  He  replied  to  the  millionaire's  greeting  by  laying 
aside  his  'book  and  looking  ready  for  conversation.  The 
two  had  not  spoken  together  alone  before. 

"  What  are  you  to  do  with  yourself,  finally  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Gay.  "  Do  you  intend  to  follow  your  father's  profession  ?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  have  not  decided.  And  I'm  tired  of 
teaching." 

Julian  hardly  knew  how  to  respond  to  the  rich  man's 
query.  He  wished  to  please  this  powerful  man,  but  he 
feared  to  venture. 

"  Would  you  like  going  to  New  York — a  business  life  ?" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          107 

asked  Mr.  Gay,  standing  over  the  young  man  and  launch 
ing  inquiries  from  his  sinister  eyes. 

"  I  would  go  to-morrow  if  I  could,"  cried  Julian,  im 
pulsively.  "What  if  the  great  financier  were  to  aid  him  ! 

"  You  are  tired  of  doing  nothing — here  in  Exmoor." 
Gay  looked  at  the  carpet  reflectively.  "  Hare  you  ever 
been  in  business  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Humph  !"  ejaculated  Gay,  "you  college  geniuses  are 
all  alike.  I  suppose  nothing  less  than  a  bank-presidency 
would  compensate  you  for  your  tutorship  in  Exmoor  Col 
lege.  Anything  less  would  partake  of  the  menial  to  one  of 
you  philosophers." 

The  jocularity  evidently  stung  the  young  man.  Gay 
watched  him. 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  Julian,  as  if  the  admission  were  wrung 
from  him.  "  It's  the  truth  to  a  certain  degree.  But  then, 
I  suppose  the  average  college  fool  gets  it  knocked  out  of 
him  quick  enough.  I  know  absolutely  nothing  of  business. 
I  wish  I  had  the  chance,  though." 

The  millionaire  turned  away.  He  never  talked  long. 
The  young  man  pleased  him.  He  admired  his  handsome 
face  and  liked  his  frank  way.  "  He  is  thoroughbred,  looks 
long-winded,"  reflected  Gay.  He  desired  to  take  this  scion 
of  transcendental  Exmoor  and  "make  a  man  of  him." 
That  it  lay  in  his  power  to  do  so,  somehow  soothed  Gay's 
pride,  which  the  indefinable  superiority  of  Exmoor  culture 
had  hurt. 

After  breakfast  President  Pompes's  carriage  drove  up. 
The  President,  Dr.  Ponder,  and  Professor  Clyde  took  Gay 
over  to  the  buildings.  They  flattered  and  flustered  about 
him  m  the  transparent  serious  manner  of  men  unaccus 
tomed  to  diplomatic  usage.  The  gray  heads  inclined  to 
him  from  a  semicircle,  they  hung  upon  his  wouds  and  ap 
plauded  his  shrewd  practical  suggestions.  Gay  liked  their 


108  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

out-and-out  obsequiousness,  their  up-and-down  subserviency. 
He  enjoyed  the  brutal  vanity  of  humbling  these  betters  of 
his.  These  professors  gratified  his  love  of  evident  triumph, 
of  assertive  power,  even  more  than  the  world  of  exchange. 
He  was  a  finger  of  that  hand  of  Strength  which  in  all 
history  has  lain  heavily  on  Thought. 

He  got  into  so  good  a  humor  that  he  offered  to  manage 
some  depreciated  stock  owned  by  the  college.  He  prom 
ised  to  resurrect  it  into  new  value.  The  philosophers 
praised  his  disinterestedness  and  the  next  trustees'  meet 
ing  consigned  the  stock  in  trust  to  him,  relying  on  his 
blind  promise.  In  the  course  of  the  summer  Gay  per 
formed  one  of  his  most  brilliant  plays.  He  seized  the 
railroad  management  by  strategy,  wrecked  the  road,  bought 
in  and  bulled  the  shares.  He  sold  out  with  profit.  He 
emerged  with  three  millions.  Incidentally  the  college  was 
benefited.  Incidentally  he  trod  some  personages  into  the 
mud.  As  a  corollary,  the  college  built  a  new  "  Divinity" 
building,  and  poverty  alighted  on  some  few  strangers' 
heads,  so  that  an  extra  suicide  occurred  and  there  was  one 
girl  more  on  the  streets. 

In  the  afternoon  Mr.  Gay  asked  Julian  to  take  him  to 
call  on  Mrs.  Ballard. 

"  If  you  don't  object,  I  shall  call  on  Mrs.  Ballard  and 
you  on  Miss  Margaret,"  he  said;  "I  shall  only  require  you 
to  amuse  yourself,  you  see." 

They  walked  down  the  hill.  On  the  way,  Gay  enter 
tained  the  youth  with  stories  from  his  life.  That  was  the 
one  theme  Gay  was  eloquent  upon.  If  he  did  not  talk 
business,  the  only  continuous  conversation  he  ever  volun 
tarily  indulged  in  was  the  history  of  himself.  The  man 
spent  his  leisure  in  gazing  on  his  own  portrait,  as  it  were. 
He  studied  his  own  career  with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  boy 
following  the  campaigns  of  Napoleon.  He  related  several 
incidents  to  Julian.  Julian  listened  almost  silently,  over- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  109 

awed.  The  man  inspired  him  with  an  immense  respect. 
By  the  time  they  reached  Mrs.  Ballard's,  Gay  liked  the 
young  fellow  even  more  than  before. 

Mrs.  Ballard  received  them  in  the  dim  parlors  and  sat 
Gay  down  before  her  swaying  body.  As  Julian  went  out 
to  find  Mai'garet  he  thought  of  an  Indian  snake-charmer, 
but  "  she'd  got  a  whopper  of  a  cobra  this  time." 

They  talked  together  as  they  had  at  Mrs.  Keyes  is,  and  the 
widow  strengthened  her  impression  on  the  New  Yorker. 
She  had  such  grasp  on  details  that  Gay,  trained  business 
man  that  he  was,  found  himself  matched  by  this  acute  in 
telligence.  The  woman,  by  the  multiplicity  of  her  knowl 
edge  and  the  tremendous  impact  of  her  phrases,  absolutely 
astonished  him.  She  blew  the  kindling  of  his  half-formed 
purpose  into  settled  determination,  she  swept  him  along  in 
the  torrent  of  her  persuasions. 

"  My  dear  madam,  you  should  have  been  a  man  and 
you  would  have  been  my  rival,"  he  said,  in  conclusion. 

Mrs.  Ballard  had  never  received  praise  so  sweet  to  her.  She 
wondered  what  was  her  purpose  in  arousing  this  stranger. 
She  could  not  tell;  she  had  no  idea  of  the  end,  but  had 
only  followed  a  road  whose  signposts  were  incidents,  each 
of  which  she  desired  to  control;  and  she  had  conquered. 
They  led  to  this — "  Gay  University."  Well,  she  did  not 
care,  she  had  achieved  a  work  few  could  have  accom 
plished.  She  did  not  care;  perhaps  they  might  hang  her 
picture  in  the  Gay  Memorial  Chapel  to  be,  along  with  the 
other  worthies. 

"  Mrs.  Ballard,"  he  began,  "  I  hope  to  be  able  to  do 
something  for  your  son  some  time.  You  have  me  so  in 
your  debt  that  I  should  feel  it  a  favor  to  myself  to  do  any 
thing  in  my  power  for  you  or  yours." 

"  I  thank  you  sincerely;  but  John  is  too  young  now, 
and  I  even  think  him  behind  his  age,"  said  this  truthf  u] 
mother,  who  looked  at  facts  like  a  man. 


110  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

"  Well,  he'll  grow,  and  then  we  will  see  to  him,"  said 
Gay,  in  his  conclusive  manner.  "  But  this  young  Clyde, 
Julian — what  is  he  ?  Tell  me  about  him." 

Mrs.  Ballavd  turned  on  him  again  in  her  intense  way. 

"  You,  Mr.  Gay,  you  do  something  for  Julian.  I  know 
him ;  he  is  cramped  and  bound  in  this  pool  of  Exmoor. 
And  he  is  a  remarkable  young  man.  This  little  commu 
nity  leaves  him  no  space  to  breathe." 

"I  see;  I  thought  myself  he  was  restless.  His  mother 
was  an  Italian,  I  believe."  After  a  pause, — "  Well,  does  he 
want  to  go  into  business  ?" 

Mrs.  Ballard  leaned  forward.  "  I  don't  know  if  he  has 
any  concrete  desire.  This  is  what  I  know,  he  is  a  man  of 
great  powers  and  requires  a  proportionate  place  to  exercise 
themr  I  don't  think  it  would  make  much  difference  what 
it  was — law,  journalism,  business  or  politics — something 
that  is  influential  and  absorbs  him,  that  is  all.  Such  latent 
capacity  will  corrode  and  corrupt  him,  if  not  drawn  out  on 
something  worthy  the  man.  Here,  in  Exmoor,  he  teaches, 
but  that  is  a  slight  thing,  and  he  is  moody  and  angered. 
If  some  powerful  hand  would  thrust  him  into  the  full  com 
bat,  he  would  become  a  remarkable  man."  Again  that  ap 
peal  to  Gay's  pride  of  power,  so  alluring  in  that  it  came 
from  her. 

And  Gay  again  accepted  the  vanity. 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Gay.  "  Business  is  the 
place  for  him.  It  is  the  bnly  thing,  nowadays.  We  busi 
ness  men  run  the  country.  Politics  are  side-show;  and  as 
for  the  statesmen,  they  are  our  servants.  Then  the  cranks, 
geniuses  and  literary  fellows — humph!  they  don't  get 
much  except  the  women." 

"  I  have  always  felt  it  was  so.  The  men  of  the  age  are 
the  great  business  men,  as  in  the  Middle  Age  the  fighters 
were.  And  a  man  wants  to  be  of  the  greatest,  at  all  odds. 
Julian  has  such  powers,  I  know  "he  has.  I  think  you  can 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  Ill 

understand  it,  how  it  is.  You  are  a  remarkable  man,  and 
surely  you  can  imagine  what  it  is  to  be  immersed  in  a  swamp 
of  dilettanti  and  women-men,  like  he  is  in  Exmoor.  Oh  ! 
he  is  filled  with  powers  that  demand  an  arena.  All  he 
needs  is  discipline  and  experience  to  become  an  honor  to 
you — if  you  will  take  hold  of  him."  She  talked  on  until 
he  became  enthusiastic,  in  a  cold  way,  to  let  down  the  ob 
structions  before  this  youth  and  give  him  a  clear  field  for 
honors. 

When  Gay  arose,  he  said,  "I  go  to-night,  Mrs.  Ballard. 
I  shall  broach  my  scheme  by  letter  and  shall  consider  you 
my  agent.  I  shall  tell  them  to  come  to  you  for  particulars. 
Audi  will  attend  to  young  Clyde. "• 

She  had  made  sacrifices  to  the  manes  of  her  youth,  to 
that  old  pain  of  hers.  Margaret  could  get  along;  those 
meek  creatures  always  did.  It  was  the  bird  that  dashed 
itself  against  the  ruthless  glass  shutting  her  from  the 
light,  that  suffered;  not  the  one  who  slid  before  the  storm- 
wind,  whither  it  listed.  No,  Julian  should  not  be  tortured, 
if  she  could  help  it;  and  she  pictured  him  as  a  tall  proud 
man  who  respected  himself,  and  to  whom  people  were 
deferential.  She  thought  she  might  have  been  such  a 
man. 

When  she  went  into  the  dining-room,  she  found  Mar 
garet  sitting  in  the  gathering  dusk.  The  girl  was  very 
still  and  her  white  hands  were  knotted  together.  The 
mother  came  behind  her  and  stroked  her  hair;  but  the 
caresser  thought,  with  a  great  pity  in  her  heart  for  the  girl, 
— "She  would  only  try  to  regenerate  him,  and  he  could 
no  more  find  understanding  than  did  I." 

There  was  early  supper  at  the  Clydes',  in  order  to  let  Mr. 
Gay  and  his  secretary  catch  the  six-o'clock  train  for  Boston. 

It  was  after  supper  in  the  parlor  that  Mr.  Gay  bade  good- 
by  to  a  knot  of  professors.  As  an  after-thought,  he  said 
casually,  "  By  the  way,  gentlemen,  I  may  as  well  tell  you 


112  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

now,  I  intend  to  give  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  towards 
that  theological  building." 

"  Princely  munificence,"  howed  the  President ;  "  Gen 
erous  heart,"  echoed  Doctor  Ponder ;  and  Professor  Clyde 
himself  grasped  the  money-prince  by  the  hand  and  stam 
mered  his  acknowledgments.  Julian  saw  them,  saw  the 
imperious  figure  erect  amid  the  swaying  scholars,  the  dark 
impassive  face  in  the  circle  of  nervous  uncertain  recluse- 
countenances.  The  man  of  the  world— how  his  clothes, 
his  bearing,  his  address,  his  confidence,  his  command,  stood 
compact  and  admirable  in  contrast  with  the  ill-fitting  gar 
ments  and  the  hesitating  speech  of  the  men  whose  appa 
rent  qualities  were  forever  sacrificed  to  the  intelligence  and 
the  spirit! 

" Good-by,  Mrs.  Lancaster,"  said  Mr.  Gay.  "We  thank 
you  for  your  hospitality  and  your  gracious  courtesies. 
I  only  hope  we  shall  be  able  to  repay  you  in  kind  in  New 
York."  He  bowed  deeply  to  the  stately  woman,  whose 
blue  blood  and  simple  ladyhood  impressed  his  plebeian 
breeding,  Altogether  his  stay  with  the  Clyde  family  had 
given  him  a  higher  opinion  of  them  than  of  most  people  in 
this  world  he  had  found  not  over-genuine. 

Julian  and  his  father  took  the  two  New  Yorkers  to  the 
train.  The  secretary  sat  on  the  front  seat  with  Julian  and 
plied  the  young  man  with  city  projects;  how  he  would  get 
into  New  York  day  after  to-morrow,  how  he  would  go  to 
his  rooms  and  get  rubbed  down,  do  a  little  business  dur 
ing  the  day,  go  to  the  Hoffman  House  for  dinner  and  to 
the  theatre  in  the  evening.  For  Julian  the  to-morrows 
seemed  stuffed  with  ennuis,  robed  in  the  chill  gray  at 
mosphere  of  the  winter  twilight.  Impulsively,  he  wanted 
that  objective  life  of  incident  and  color  the  New  Yorker 
talked  of.  The  pleasure-loving  South  revolted  against  the 
subjective  existence  in  which  he  had  buried  his  youth. 

On  the  back  seat  Mr.  Gay  in  low  tones  opened  on  Pro- 


TUE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  113 

fessor  Clyde  concerning  Julian.  He  offered  the  young  man 
a  place  in  his  office  and  promised  to  see  him  to  success. 
He  said  he  had  a  sudden  admiration  for  Julian,  and  having 
no  son  of  his  own  he  intended  to  do  much  for  the  young 
fellow.  Mr.  Gay  treated  the  matter  as  if  it  were  already 
determined. 

The  train  was  already  in,  and  Julian  jumped  for  the 
checks. 

"Ta,  ta,  my  handsome  friend;  I  shall  expect  to  see  you 
in  New  York  yet,"  said  Mancutt. 

"  You  are  to  enter  business  with  me.  Speak  to  your 
father,"  announced  Gay,  as  he  ascended  the  platform  of 
the  car. 

The  train  shot  out.  The  dreary  evening  beleaguered  the 
heavens  with  gray  intrenchments  of  cold  cloud,  the  rutted 
mud  of  the  roads  looked  hard  and  brown,  Chesterfield 
stamped  his  chilly  legs  before  the  rickety  family  carriage. 
Ah,  how  flat  and  forlorn  it  all  was  !  Julian  looked  at  the 
travelling  plume  of  smoke  and  wished  he  were  rushing 
away  from  under  this  barren  sky  towards  the  city  lights 
and  gayety  and  lively  throngs.  He  rode  with  his  father 
along  the  uneventful  streets  back  into  his  death-in-life 
existence  of  thought.  But,  through  all  the  dreariness,  like 
a  bridge  of  bronze  through  a  swamp  Mr.  Gay's  last  words 
built  straight  "  the  path  of  gold  for  him." 

On  the  train  Gay  said  to  his  secretary,  "How  did  the 
plain  living  and  high  thinking  strike  you  ?" 

"  As  high  starvation  and  plain  cranks,"  laughed  Man 
cutt. 


114  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 


CHAPTEK  IX. 

THE  GRAVITATION  OF  THE  GEEATEE  BODY. 

"I  AM  going  to  New  York/'  said  Julian  in  a  tone 
anticipatory  of  opposition. 

The  young  man  stood  with  his  back  against  the  corner 
of  the  mantelpiece  in  the  study  of  Mr.  Keyes.  The  mild 
petroleum  light  fell  over  him,  his  Titian  head  and  the  long 
English  frame.  He  looked  the  critic  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"  How  long?  "  responded  Mr.  Keyes,  from  the  depths  of 
his  leather  chair.  He  evidently  thought  of  a  visit. 

"  For  good."  Keyes  started.  "  Mr.  Gay  has  offered  me 
a  place  in  his  office.  It  is  advantageous,  and  he  told 
father  he  would  see  to  my  success/' 

Keyes  was  bolt  upright,  and  his  luminous  eyes  were  fierce. 

"What  do  you  mean!  Business,  going  into  business! 
What,  a  broker  of  you  ?" 

Julian  smiled  superiorly.  "  Not  such  a  great  matter. 
Simply  that  I  mean  to  wrestle  a  fall  with  the  world.  A 
real  fight,  that  is  all." 

"  Do  you  mean  it  ?  "  asked  the  critic  in  a  low  voice. 

"Exactly,"  Julian  answered,  and  his  tone  rasped,  like 
the  aspirate  of  the  word. 

"So  you  too  have  caught  the  infection;  you  feel  the 
'  Zeitgeist/  as  they  clang  it!  You  with  the  rest !"  He  said 
it  mournfully.  "  Ah,  you  are  of  your  generation,  as  I  of 
mine,  as  every  man  is  in  compelled  allegiance  to  his  own. 
And  the  lodestone  draws,  does  it  ?"  Suddenly  his  medita 
tion  rang  into  exasperation.  "Reality!  the  real  world,  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          115 

true  facts,  the  serious  struggle, — that  is  the  nomenclature 
of  the  absurd  cant,  isn't  it  ?  Oh,  yes,  I've  heard  it  before; 
you  and  your  crowd  of  ambitious  idiots  sing  it  well.  Dare 
to  carry  your  ideals  into  the  world  and  test  them  in  the 
fires  of  reality,  which,  interpreted,  means,  scour  your  souls 
in  the  filth  of  the  average  conceptions,  and  see  if  then  they 
hold  color."  He  paused,  a  moment  of  indignation  "  Will 
you  young  aspiring  fools  never  understand  that  the  great 
things  are  within  you,  not  without.  Environment,  that's 
the  word,  the  new  standard  coin,  the  word  of  your  gener 
ation.  It  has  ousted  soul  with  you.  Will  you  never  under 
stand  that  it  is  faith,  and  not  knowledge,  trust  and  aspir 
ation,  and  never  analysis  and  all  the  sensations  the  most 
fortunate  circumstances  can  impose  upon  you — never  those, 
that  make  greatness  ?  Always  the  inner,  the  unseen,  the 
unseen — "  His  voice  died  into  a  whisper. 

After  a  short  space  Julian  broke  in  with,  "  Well,  which 
is  worse,  to  be  a  money-gainer  or  a  pedant  ?  I  don't  think 
the  '  average  sensual  man,'  as  you  are  so  fond  of  phrasing 
it,  any  more  utterly  insufficient  than  the  Exmoor  edition 
of  Doctor  Dryasdust."  Julian  spoke  hotly. 

"You  evade,  you  evade,"  smiled  Keyes  up  in  the  young 
fellow's  face.  "  You  are  neither,  neither  pedant  nor 
shekel-changer.  Do  you  want  flattery?  You  are  a  thinker, 
and  a  thinker  you  will  always  be,  whether  in  the  monastery 
here  in  Exmoor,  or  in  the  market-place  with  Mr.  Gay. 
And  to  you,  to  the  thinker," — the  critic  shook  his  lean 
forefinger  in  his  earnestness, — "  to  the  thinker,  I  say,  se 
clude  yourself,  get  into  some  secure  eddy,  stay  in  your  hole, 
stay  in  your  hole,  and  if  this  commercial  age  don't  rout 
you  out  as  the  mediaeval  brutes  smoked  out  Bruno  and 
the  men  of  Oxford,  thank  a  fortunate  fate.  That's  all 
that's  left  to  us.  Burly  utilitarians  and  smug  comfort- 
seekers  shoulder  the  man  of  pure  ideas  with  little  enough 
respect.  You  should  be  grateful  there  yet  exist  in  Amer- 


116          .THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

ica  a  Concord  and  an  Exmoor,  where  such  people  as  you 
and  I  and  your  father  can  burrow.  Another  generation 
will  sweep  them  out." 

"All  you  say  may  be  true  ;  indeed,  perhaps  I  believe  it 
true.  Railroad  brains,  acquisitive  instinct,  executive  intel 
lect  ;  they  command  the  times,  I  know.  And  ideas  are 
not  salable.*'  The  young  voice  had  a  wistful  note  in  it. 
"But  I  am  young  and  the  heart's  pulse  overleaps  the  regu 
lations  of  the  head.  I  still  believe  with  my  heart  in  the 
world  and  its  beneficence,  that  it  holds  for  me  place  and 
happiness.  I  obey  gravitation  and  go." 

"  To  return/' — caught  up  the  critic, — "  to  return  beaten, 
with  tail  between  legs.  I  foresee  it,  I  foresee  it!  But  it  is 
not  a  happy  experience.  Let  us  preserve  our  upright 
posture.  Do  you  not  believe  with  the  Frenchman  that  no 
experience  and  no  success  can  compensate  for  a  single 
moment's  loss  of  dignity  ?" 

"  But  I  shall  not  return,"  retorted  Julian.  Keyes 
looked  at  the  young  man,  his  pride  of  beauty  and  manhood 
and  intellect.  The  critic  shuddered,  and  then  anger  suc 
ceeded.  He  rose  from  his  chair  and  strode  the  room,  the 
long  robe  trailing  to  his  feet,  his  hands  catching  his  beard, 
in  his  eyes  lightning. 

"  What  do  you  expect  of  New  York  ?  You  are  no  mere 
money-getter.  "What  do  you  want  out  of  that  Babylon  of 
commerce,  that  city  of  millionaires  and  groceries,  that 
dumping-ground  of  sixty  railroads  ?  Babylon  !  it  is  the 
old  Euphrates  city  resurrected  and  transplanted,  a  capital 
without  letters,  without  art,  without  science,  that  has 
cliques  instead  of  society,  and  electioneering  instead  of 
politics.  You  will  find  species  of  only  one  type  there,  the 
money-maker  ;  and  only  two  species  at  that,  he  who  has 
and  he  who  hasn't.  A  metropolis  of  clerks  and  ignorant 
millionaires,  of  the  average  civilized  and  democracy's  bar 
barians,  Gays  and  Mancutts  ;  they're  typical  and  there's 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          117 

little  else.  It  is  neither  old  Rome,  nor  London,  nor  Paris, 
nor  Vienna,  nor  even  St.  Petersburg.  It  is  New  Babylon — 
simply  a  hive."  He  stopped  an  instant  and  turned  to 
Julian  with  a  kindly  bitterness.  "And  was  it  Edmund 
Burke  you  meant  to  play  down  there,  or  de  Balzac,  or  even 
Dan  Webster  ?  Ah,  my  dear  boy,  Nebuchadnezzar  is  the 
only  possible  role — all  they  could  comprehend.  And  you 
don't  emulate  financier  Gay  ?" 

He  looked  at  Julian  with  a  quizzical  gaze,  half  expres 
sive  of  scorn  and  half  of  pity.  "  Don't  you  understand 
that  careers  are  out  of  date,  since  we  sunk  all  our  great 
questions  in  the  Civil  War  ?  Don't  you  see  that  our  system 
of  federal  government  enmeshes  every  great  personality, 
and  seldom,  except  when  a  storm  comes,  allows  a  man  full 
scope  in  the  use  of  his  powers  ?  Our  later  leaders  are  not 
of  the  old  stamp.  New  gods  are  sovereign.  As  for  politi 
cal  speculation,  and  abstract  ideas  of  government,  and  con 
stitutional  history,  they  don't  concern  this  generation. 
Do  you  suppose  a  speaker  could  talk  Cicero  to  a  crowd  of 
bald-headed  sensation-seekers  and  superficial  clerks  ?  I'd 
rather  have  an  audience  of  English  laborers;  they're  serious 
and  sincere  and  wish  to  learn.  But  you're  no  circus-man 
ager,  you  couldn't  amuse.  Burke,  humph  !  our  wire 
pullers  and  practical  politicians  would  sneer  at  him  as  a 
hifalutin  crank,  who  would  lose  every  election  and 
leave  the  legislature's  pockets  empty.  Even  Jefferson 
would  be  impossible  now.  Don't  waste  sky-rockets  on 
moles."  He  glanced  at  Julian,  whose  set  face  had  not 
changed,  and  then  went  on: 

11  And  for  literature,  if  you  indulge  any  dreams  of  writ 
ing  in  New  York,  you  are  more  foolish  than  I  thought. 
They  make  a  great  fuss  about  what  is  to  come  in  the  future. 
It's  stuff,  pure  stuff.  A  world  of  hucksters  and  bargainers, 
with  women  to  match  ;  you'd  exhaust  the  types  in  two 
books.  And  then  they  don't  want  to  learn  ;  understand- 


118  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

ing's  not  their  faith,  though  it  may  be  their  fad.  Do  you 
suppose  a  populace,  which  lives  on  its  newspapers,  wants 
an  interpreter?  Oh,  there  are  no  passions  down  there,  ex 
cept  the  money  passions.  It  was  different  when  I  was  your 
age,  but  now  the  tide  has  overcome  us  and  we  had  better 
not  rebel.  A  war  might  regenerate  us.  I  sometimes  wish 
we  had  an  army- like  Germany,  or  something,  whatever  it 
might  be,  to  balance  the  tremendous  preponderance  of 
trade.  Literature  !  you  might  as  well  try  to  write  for 
ancient  Carthage  or  Tyre."  When  the  critic  was  fairly 
started  on  a  theme,  his  ideas  were  poured  forth  in  floods. 

"  Or  do  I  mistake  ?  is  it  that  you  indulge  the  notion 
you  were  born  an  able  man?  Have  you  imbibed  that  heresy 
from  Mrs.  Medeia  Ballard  ?  That  is  likely,  I  suppose. 
Well,  you  are  mistaken ;  you  are  not  able.  You  haven't  a 
quality  your  generation  puts  into  its  ideal.  Let  me  tell 
you,  New  York  will  discourage  and  break  your  spirit  first, 
and  then  will  make  a  drudge  of  you." 

"  I  have  no  such  hopes,  no  great  ones,"  said  Julian 
sharply.  "  I  go  to  New  York  to  find  a  solution  of  life 
that's  not  here  for  me.  I  want  contentment  in  the  place  of 
the  unrest  Exmoor  has  for  me.  I  don't  ask  much  from  the 
world,  except  peace.  And  what  can  they  take  from  me? — 
not  my  ideals,  surely." 

The  cynical  lips  of  the  critic  curled.  He  broke  out: 
"  Boy,  boy,  what  do  you  say  ?  You  do  not  know.  You 
have  never  been  battered  against  the  wall  of  public  opinion; 
you  have  never  cooled  enthusiasms  beneath  the  dish-water 
of  average  common-sense,  such  as  they  throw  out  of 
window  on  high-necked  idealists.  Go  down  into  the  dom 
inant  commonplace  crowd  with  your  platonic  conceptions 
and  your  Goethe  philosophy,  and  see  how  you  fare.  You 
have  never  taken  your  soul  in  your  hand,  your  quivering 
Ariel  soul,  and  plunged  it  into  the  chill  air  of  the  world 
which  beckons  to  you  now  seductively  like  the  bare  arms 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          119 

of  a  girl.  This  hollow  of  the  infinite  in  which  you  dwell, 
this  garment  of  God  which  nature  seems  to  you,  is  to  those 
who  rule  this  time  merely  so  much  mud  and  liquid  to  make 
mud-pies  with,  though  they  call  them  manufactures.  That 
dry  air  of  mediocrity  has  rotted  noble  spirits  before  yours." 

"  But  Exmoor !  is  Exmoor  better  ?"  Julian  cut  in. 

"  Exmoor!"  exclaimed  Keyes,  and  he  swept  out  his  arms 
as  in  an  apostrophe, — "  poor  Puritan  Yankee  town,  tucked 
away  in  the  hills !  In  the  deluge  since  the  war,  you  have  pre 
served,  in  scant  measure  it  is  true,  but  you  have  preserved 
the  old  New  England  spirit.  One  can  have  ideas  here  and 
no  one  sneers.  One  can  be  true  and  no  pretence.  One  can 
bury  himself  in  the  beautiful  and  gather  about  himself 
thought.  Julian,  the  crude,  sweating  world  is  not  fash 
ioned  for  you.  It  has  an  abundance  of  able  men,  strong, 
blind  fellows,  to  do  its  work  and  its  sacrifice  valiantly. 
America  has  need  of  you  in  another  manner,  and  desper 
ate  need  at  that.  Even  more  than  Europe,  America  needs 
her  Brahmins,  her  idealists,  her  spiritualists,  to  keep  alive 
the  vestal  fire  of  mind  and  soul,  to  carry  over  to  the  future 
the  conceptions  of  the  intellect,  the  idea  of  the  soul,  as 
distinct  from  institution  and  the  millions.  In  the  wild 
night  of  Csesarism,  of  democratie  imperium,  of  the  barba 
rism  of  mediocrity,  coming  on,  the  few  should  hide  in  the 
catacombs  the  Promethean  fire  that  a  happier  age  may 
light  its  torches  by." 

Was  not  this  an  old  man's  anathema  ?  Keyes  had  known 
Carlyle  and  he  corresponded  with  Arnold. 

"  But  is  it  not  best  to  go  with  one's  age  ?"  asked  Julian, 
sceptically. 

"  If  you  desire  comfort,  if  you  prize  the  puddings  and 
sauce,  yes;  if  freedom,  no.  That  multitude,  whose  mass 
attracts  you,  what  is  it  but  an  aggregate  of  individuals? 
It  has  no  quantitative  claim  to  your  reverence,  no  more 
than  its  units  may  demand.  The  man  individually,  you 


120  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

would  not  budge  for  his  opinion,  you  would  not  take  his 
wisdom,  you  would  hold  him  lower  than  yourself.  What 
is  this,  then  ?  You  bunch  a  million  of  such  together,  and 
though  they  roar  only  what  the  one  insignificance  squeaked, 
you  shape  your  life  to  the  vociferous  halloo ;  you  submit 
your  higher  intuition  to  their  arbitration  and  you  value 
their  applause."  He  paused. 

"  To  be  free,  that  is  the  birthright  you  squander  for  a 
mess  of  pottage.  You  can  stand  away  from  the  world,  its 
gusts  of  passion,  its  prejudices,  its  microscopic  detailed 
sight.  You  need  take  no  other  system  upon  yourself,  box 
yourself  to  no  popularity,  concentrate  your  intellect  on  no 
mean  utilitarian  temporal  need.  You  can  be  free;  it  is 
permitted  you  to  fathom  the  deeps,  the  causes  and  the 
hollow  chasms  of  existence.  You  can  stretch  your  soul  to 
an  infinite  expansion,  in  which  this  earth-life  is  but  a 
phase.  You  can  take  in  all  the  breezes  of  creation.  And 
yet  you  falter  in  the  shadow  of  paltry  gilded  images,  you 
desire  to  grasp  the  illusive  flickering  beams  of  worldly 
prosperity!  If  power  were  eternal,  and  fortune  sure  as 
death,  I  say  it  were  nobler  to  stand  out  from  under  them 
and  their  tyranny,  naked  and  free/' 

Julian  was  dumb  before  this  flood  of  passionate  hate  and 
exhortation.  Was  this  the  sceptical  intellectual ist,  the 
self-indulgent  Epicurean,  who  passed  by  the  sorrows  of 
other  men,  whose  only  humanism  was  a  strain  of  sentiment- 
alism  that  peeped  forth  occasionally  from  his  sarcasms  and 
poetic  conceits  ?  Even  to  Julian,  a  familiar  and  pupil  in  a 
certain  sense,  this  height  of  passion  was  inexplicable.  The 
contorted  lines  of  the  old  man's  face,  his  flaming  eyes  and 
the  deep  ridges  breaking  round  the  cynical  curved  mouth, 
filled  him  with  amazement,  as  if  he  had  just  discovered 
quivering  fire  leaping  from  ice.  Keyes  went  on.  He  had 
lost  his  fierceness.  He  spoke  with  that  intensity  which  is 
the  conviction  of  despair. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          121 

"  Boy,  there  are  gifts  in  you  too  high  to  be  appreciated 
in  that  ordinary  world  of  average  love,  of  every-day  com 
fort,  of  mediocrity  and  uniformity,  to  which  you  turn. 
Wrap  yourself  in  the  pleasures  of  the  flesh,  riches  and 
houses  and  men's  good  opinion,  the  envy  of  the  unfortu 
nate  and  approbation  of  the  respectable,  nay,  even  in 
woman's  love  and  home  and  children — they  will  not  balm 
your  discontent;  such  pitiful  rain  can  never  gladden  the 
naked  summits  of  your  intellectual  soul.  Power  you  will 
learn  to  be  a  lesser  thing  than  understanding;  love,  a 
meaner  thing  than  renunciation." 

There  was  something  fantastic  in  the  critic's  gestures,  in 
his  theatrical  attitudes  and  the  stage  expression  of  his  face, 
which  would  have  amused  the  humorous  man  of  the  time. 
But  the  sardonic  bitterness  struck  home  to  Julian,  to  whom 
this  tragic  habit  was  no  novelty,  and  so  forgotten  before 
the  impassioned  protest.  Yet,  did  he  feel  the  full  import 
of  the  critic's  words  ?  Probably  not.  The  American  is  un 
prepared  to  behold  himself  a  five-act  tragedy  with  choruses. 
His  own  existence  is  so  large  a  part  purely  droll,  as  pre 
sented  to  himself,  that  though  he  may  discern  the  sorrow 
of  another,  he  never  altogether  pities  himself,  or  perceives 
the  complete  pathos  of  his  own  career.  The  trait  makes 
for  manliness  and  yet  it  brings  its  defects.  It  prevents  us 
from  descending  to  whining  weakness,  and  it  hinders  us 
from  attaining  that  distinction  of  personality  which  is 
founded  on  reverence  for  one's  highest  self.  So  with 
Julian.  The  tremendous  seriousness  of  Keyes  and  his 
vociferous  emphasis  struck  Julian  as  overdone  in  his  own 
case.  So  much  contained  in  his  own  carcass — to  feel  himself 
packed  with  such  infinite  alternatives,  staggered  his  credu 
lity.  If  it  had  been  another  man,  Julian  could  have 
appreciated  the  critic's  seriousness. 

He  was  at  a  loss  how  to  reply.     He  did  not  feel  like 


122  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

gulping  down  Keyes's  speech  as  wholly  applicable  to  him 
self.  He  muttered  in  reply  : 

"  Well — but — you  see,  Mr.  Keyes,  that's  laying  it  on  a 
little  thick.  I — pardon  me;  you  know  I  am  no  great-guns, 
like  that.  This  is  all  :  I  want  to  do  something,  strike 
one  or  two  strokes  in  the  world's  business  and  prove  to 
myself  that  I  am  half-way  a  man — a  thing  I  am  in  doubt 
of  now." 

"  This  damnable  humility  I"  cried  Keyes.  "  Your  best 
impulses  lead  you  into  it.  We  are  such  young  puppies  and 
the  world  is  wise  and  in  the  majority!  We  are  docile  too, 
quite  removed  from  self-sufficient  conceit,  and  the  world 
contains  much  above  us  that  we  can  rise  by!  We  will  go 
to  the  world  and  learn  of  her,  like  children  flocking  to  the 
knees  of  their  mother!  The  law  of  irony — that  this  beauti 
ful  faith,  born  out  of  tolerance  and  ability  to  learn 
adequately  men's  lesson,  should  beckon  you  to  destruction! 
You  believe  the  meanest  person  has  points  for  you;  you 
believe  the  world  is  your  superior;  you  reverence  other 
people  more  than  yourself.  That  is  the  whole  sin  of 
America,  which  makes  us  smart  and  mountebanks,  and 
deprives  us  of  dignity  and  greatness.  No  doubt,  now,  to 
follow  out  another  instance  of  the  laws  of  irony,  your 
father,  who  dwells  with  the  universalities,  prefers  the  world 
for  you." 

"He  does.  He  told  me  to-day  he  was  glad  I  was 
going,  and  he  hoped  I  would  show  them  we  were  not  all 
dreamers  yet,  that  the  old  hard  stock  produced  fighters 
still." 

"  Quite  so,"  sputtered  the  critic.  "  The  angel  tempts  to 
sin,  and  the  ass  speaketh  words  of  wisdom.  You  will  find 
more  good  grown  of  evil  and  evil  of  good  than  the  legiti 
mate  birth.  Some  ethical  jackdaw,  who  plumes  his  feath 
ers  on  the  influence  of  his  own  good  deeds  that  cannot  but 
make  for  righteousness — if  one  could  only  open  his  ecstatic 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          123 

eyes,  what  visions  of  sin  on  the  bushes  of  morality  he  would 
see  !  Humph  I" 

Julian  found  it  thus.  Mr.  Keyes  and  Mrs.  Lancaster 
alone  dissuaded  him,  while  Mrs.  Ballard  and  Margaret  and 
his  father  urged  him  to  go. 

Professor  Clyde  seemed  determined.  New  York  was  the 
grand  theatre.  Julian  must  go.  "  It  is  an  opportunity  of 
a  lifetime.  It  offers  you  the  chance  to  become  one  of  the 
men  whom  your  generation  will  respect,  and  that  is  much," 
said  Hiram  Clyde. 

This  New  England  recluse,  this  modern  monk,  this 
Puritan  St.  Augustine,  this  Exmoor  Hegel,  from  whom 
life  and  its  fires  were  so  distant,  but  whose  plummet  had 
sounded  the  abysses  of  human  philosophy — this  man  of 
thought,  this  irresolute  and  eternally  suppressed  nature, 
yet,  in  accordance  with  what  Keyes  had  called  the  law  of 
irony,  yielded  in  his  inmost  soul  to  an  admiration  for 
action.  He  looked  on  the  men  of  the  world  and  he  looked 
on  Mr.  Gay;  for  all  that  he  classified  him  as  a  magnificent 
sense — as  some  poor  poet,  all  fire  and  consumed  flesh,  looks 
on  the  mighty  limbs  and  clean  muscles  and  clear  skin  of 
some  Olympian  wrestler. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  have  the  chance,  Julian.  Isn't  it  mag 
nificent  ?  You  will  make  a  success,"  were  Margaret's  words ; 
and  her  thought  was,  "  If  only  he  will  abandon  his  false 
notions  and  settle  down  to  practical  duty." 

What  we  express  is  superficial.  Beneath  our  passions, 
our  consciousness,  our  appeals  to  human  kind,  our  love  of 
one  another,  lies  the  unconscious,  ever-present  self,  which 
fulfils  its  destiny,  whichever  way  our  wills  may  waver, 
whether  to  accomplishment  or  negation.  Deep  beneath 
the  wrappings  of  sense,  beneath  the  categories  of  the  under 
standing,  beneath  all  those  vibrations  created  in  us  by  con 
tacts  with  that  exterior  force  we  call  the  world,  lies  an 
inner  core,  never  touched  of  time  or  space,  silent  and  potent 


124  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

as  the  Sphinx,  our  real  self,  our  true  essence,  not  to  be 
expressed  to  men.  That  it  is  which  guides  us;  that  it  is 
which  plunges  us  to  our  fate,  even  through  and  against 
the  protest  of  our  superficial  nature,  the  reason  and  the 
will. 

So,  perhaps,  Julian  understood  the  whole  matter  before 
he  left  Exmoor,  as  years  afterwards,  when  the  determina 
tion  of  his  life  lay  within  the  past.  He  was  no  blind  en 
thusiast,  no  weakly  sentimentalist,  such  as  nowadays  float 
art  in  the  drawing-rooms.  He  had  the  sane  brain  to  draw 
the  measure  of  things  pretty  accurately.  He  knew  what 
to  expect.  But  the  underneath  held  to  a  tendency  and 
dictated  his  course.  Whatever  might  be  the  billows  of 
struggle  and  effort,  the  Gulf  Stream  of  inner  self,  his  un 
conscious  self,  bore  on  beneath  and  washed  what  shores  it 
would,  despite  storms  in  opposition  that  smote  the  surface- 
waters. 

I  do  not  call  this  instinctive  and  compelling  force  which 
seized  his  shoulders  and  spun  him  round  with  his  face  to 
the  world,  Choice.  He  had  no  choice.  Inheritance,  the 
atmosphere  of  his  time,  the  magnetism  of  numbers  and 
swarms  and  great  piles  of  buildings,  which  we  call  cities, 
made  up  his  Fate,  and  he  was  swept  to  his  destiny  natu 
rally,  inevitably,  eternally.  He  could  no  more  contradict  the 
determining  impulse  of  his  generation  than  a  satellite  of 
the  solar  system  can  contradict  the  law  of  gravitation. 
That  impulse  was  the  law  of  his  being,  the  manner  of  his 
acting,  and  by  it  and  of  it  he  existed. 

The  gravitation  of  the  greater  body  swung  him  into  line 
with  his  age. 


PAET  H. 
NEW    YORK. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   PALACE  OF  A  MILLI05TAIEE. 

THE  aristocracies  of  the  old-world  capitals  seek  the 
secluded  quarters.  They  wall  in  their  luxury  and  create 
an  artificial  solitude.  Their  palaces  open  on  gardens  and 
are  screened  with  trees.  The  St.  Germain  of  Paris  fronts 
on  narrow  streets  and  presents  to  the  plebeian  world  but 
monotonous  ranges  of  blank  stone.  London  secretes  her* 
exclusive,  sheltering  them  in  quiet  squares  and  sequestered 
plases,  where,  encircled  by  the  rumble  of  the  world's  centre, 
they  live  withdrawn.  Those  old  nobilities  rest  in  the  years 
and  tradition,  and  they  need  not  flaunt  their  ostentation  in 
the  eyes  of  a  sceptical  democracy. 

But  the  plutocrats  of  the  New  Babylon  thrust  themselves 
upon  the  notice.  They  plant  their  piles  on  the  great 
streets,  and  their  housetops  proclaim  their  rank.  What 
other  distinction,  indeed,  have  they  ?  Coin  is  the  corner 
stone  of  their  supremacy,  and  the  sole  heraldry  of  selection 
belonging  to  the  magnified  Shylock  or  Cyclopean  butcher, 
is  his  station  on  the  central  avenue,  with  arms  akimbo, 
elbowing  his  brother- moneybags,  challenging  notoriety. 

The  rich  men  of  New  York  build  their  palaces  on  land 

125 


126  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

no  moderate  wealth  could  hold ;  and  ability  to  set  their 
home  walls  against  the  pressure  of  commerce  and  maintain 
their  bath-rooms  upon  golden  yards  of  real  estate  is  the 
seal  of  the  coronet  to  this  American  nobility.  To  seat  one's 
self  in  the  midst  of  traffic,  like  a  boulder  in  a  torrent — that 
is  the  social  test. 

Indeed,  in  democratic  America,  in  a  mushroom  society 
of  a  century's  creation,  what  else  shall  constitute  the  opti- 
mate  ?  How  can  an  optimate  recognize  a  fellow-optimate 
out  of  that  crush  of  mediocrity  and  barter  ?  Weighty 
questions,  seeking,  these  some  years,  an  adequate  answer. 
Unfortunately,  the  optimate  is  not  branded  like  a  sentenced 
criminal;  neither  is  he  necessarily  distinguished  by  any 
outward  refinement,  superiority  of  manners  or  grace  of 
carriage.  Plutocrats  range  in  every  size  and  mask  in  all 
shapes,  of  every  complexion,  of  variety  of  noses  ;  they  are 
Germans  and  Jews,  Knickerbockers  and  inelegant  Yankees; 
illiterate  and  learned;  men  who  by  some  means,  by  any 
means,  by  worth,  by  toil,  by  villany,  by  stealth,  have  thrust 
their  heads  above  the  seething  pool  of  every-day  endeavor 
and  sordid  commonness.  Such  a  heterogeneity  requires  an 
invented  insignia,  the  old  distinctions  are  misfits  ;  for  this 
new  order  has  no  book  of  peers,  from  which  to  ascertain 
themselves,  nor  any  fraternity  of  mind  or  belief  to  rally 
them  together.  Aristocracy,  in  the  old  sense,  is  obsolete.  A 
new  means  of  recognition  has  arisen ;  locality  stamps  the 
rank,  and  the  possessors  of  passive  metal  hasten  to  put  their 
bullion  under  the  mint-impress  of  a  Fifth  Avenue  resi 
dence. 

Those  rich  enough  to  crowd  the  great  street  are  the 
optimates  of  this  New  Babylon.  None  other.  And  that  is 
how  the  magnate  of  oil  knows  the  magnate  of  sugar.  Hence 
the  potency  of  locality.  "Place  "  has  anew  significance 
here. 

There  is  a  house  on  that  imperial  street  of  the  New 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          127 

World,  ponderous  even  for  Fifth  Avenue,  which  stands  out 
an  embodiment  of  wealth  even  on  that  street,  paraded  as  it 
is  from  end  to  end  with  miles  of  palaces  and  panelled  with 
naught  that  does  not  cost.  The  house  sits  on  a  corner  and 
rears  its  brown  walls  out  of  a  stone  moat.  There  is  not  a 
blade  of  grass  nor  a  streak  of  earth  between  its  base  and 
the  pavement  of  the  street.  It  seems  not  to  be  built,  not 
put-together  stones,  but  hewn  out,  as  it  were,  of  some 
huge,  immovable  rock,  whose  foundations  are  the  granite 
of  the  avenue  ;  indeed,  so  blended  with  the  hard  pave 
ments  seem  its  walls  that  one  might  suppose  the  street  a 
lava  river  cooled  into  flagging  and  granite  and  house-blocks. 
The  moat  is  dug  like  a  trench  in  solid  stone,  and  a  stone 
balustrade  separate^  this  ditch  from  the  sidewalk  flagging. 
Out  of  that  sink  rises  the  house,  immense,  square,  bilious- 
colored,  a  sombre  cube  and  grim,  squatted  heavily  on  the 
avenue,  like  a  grotesque  dream,  casting  its  gloom  over  the 
vicinity,  ominous,  significant,  implacable. 

The  main  entrance  is  in  the  centre  under  an  arch  of  great 
stones  that  seem  to  brood  over  the  doorway,  a  hanging 
portcullis,  a  crushing  lip  about  to  be  let  down.  The  win 
dows  are  high  up,  sunk  in  the  masonry  to  a  Gothic  depth,  the 
glass  in  them  half  an  inch  thick.  The  stones  of  the  walls 
are  all  huge  and  even  enormous.  There  are  four  stories 
above  the  basement,  and  the  castellated  roof  breaks  into 
abrupt  edges.  Above  the  whole  sit  eight  short,  thick  chim 
neys.  There  is  an  eternity  in  the  house's  face,  Roman  and 
imperial. 

This  mansion,  so  massive,  so  hideous,  incarnates  that 
modern  wealth  which  has  superseded  power.  It  is  solid, 
irresistible,  impartially  cruel  as  the  laws  of  business,  as 
the  imperative  spirit  of  success.  Eyeless,  earless,  unfeel 
ing,  this  enormity  outtops  thought  and  sentiment,  which 
seem  vapid  under  its  weight.  It  is  the  monstrous  idol 
of  America.  Its  opaque  shades  jaundice  the  clear  face  of 


128  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

pure  aspiration,  the  innocent  content  of  simple  love. 
There  is  nothing  like  it  in  history  save  Caesarean  Eome. 
It  is  sovereign.  To  it  our  yonng  men's  faces  are  set,  and 
round  it  our  old  men  pray.  To  women  it  is  more  than 
beauty  ;  to  men  it  surpasses  mind.  It  is  the  Mecca  of  de 
mocracy.  It  tinctures  all  souls,  even  the  meekest.  It  has 
embraced  in  its  tentacles  the  common,  the  strong,  the 
brave,  the  weak,  the  pure,  the  ignorant,  the  gifted,  the 
great.  It  has  sucked  out  the  nation's  chances  of  an  origi 
nal  Art,  it  has  drained  literature  of  genius,  it  has  made 
politics  a  huckster's  trade  and  shod  the  statesman  with  cor 
ruption.  It  has  even  gilded  religion  and  bought  over 
Nature.  Our  young  girls  aspire  to  be  money-queens  and 
relegate  Motherhood  to  the  superstition*.  Our  young  men 
forget  peace,  fame,  knowledge,  to  wallow  in  the  gutters  of 
gain.  "  A  road  for  the  talents  ! "  hence  a  chance  for  the 
meanest  in  democracy's  grand  lottery.  They  crowd  to  the 
drawing  booths,  inflamed  ;  for  some  may  draw  the  Presi 
dency,  but  none  shall  draw  worth.  That  is  not  to  be  diced 
for. 

This  is  the  finale,  then,  the  result  of  a  century  of  politics 
and  wisdom  and  toil — to  establish  a  form  of  human  society 
wherein  each  may  buy  a  ticket  in  the  Lottery  of  Possible 
Wealth. 

Mr.  Gay,  who  built  that  house,  expressed  his  mastery  in 
it.  The  world  he  had  fought  with  and  thrown  and  gagged 
— the  house  was  an  ^Etna  monument  enthroned  on  the 
prostrate  Titan.  Mr.  Gay  loved  its  rugged  masterfulness, 
its  haughty  supremacy,  the  grim  way  it  looked  upon  the 
conquered  world. 

It  was  a  crystalline  day,  such  as  November's  repertoire 
contains.  Sunlight,  the  clear  chilly  autumn  brilliance, 
flashed  from  a  blue  sky,  down  upon  the  Avenue.  Looking 
from  the  crest  of  Murray  Hill  towards  Madison  Square,  a 
thousand  diamond  points  struck  out  and  flamed  and  flamed 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          129 

again.  Carriages  rolled  solidly  over  the  pavement ;  from 
silken  cushions  opulent  idle  women  surveyed  the  humanity 
of  the  streets.  The  world  of  the  Millionaires  choked  the 
groove  of  the  Avenue  with  luxury  and  laziness  and  disdain. 

The  secretary  and  Julian  lounged  along  in  fashionable 
get-up.  The  secretary  had  introduced  Julian  to  a  Gotham 
tailor,  who  had  done  justice  to  the  possibilities  of  the  young 
man's  lithe  symmetry.  The  Eoman-featured  companion  of 
Mr.  Gay's  secretary,  with  his  southern  tints  and  red-gold 
hair,  excited  the  admiration  of  more  than  one  group  of  ro 
mantic  chits  of  sauntering  girls,  and  drew  the  attention 
even  of  several  carriages.  The  blood  of  some  sixteenth- 
century  Venetian  noble,  strangely  mixed  in  his  shop-girl 
mother,  had  reasserted  its  primal  virtue,  and  the  young 
man  walked  in  the  stately  stride  of  those  magnificent  ani 
mals  Veronese  loved  to  plaster  upon  Ducal  Palace  walls. 

"You  attract  attention,"  said  the  secretary.  "I  knew 
it,  I  prophesied  it.  Nothing  like  complexion  and  shape, 
wrapped  into  a  New  York  suit.  There  !  see  that  woman 
with  the  red  plumage  driving  there  ahead  now,  she  looked 
you  over.  She's  Mrs.  Van  Vooster  ;  old  family  and  shekels. 
Ah,  my  beauty!  I  tell  you,  stick  to  me  and  we'll  cut 
diamonds." 

"  I'll  stick,  closer  than  a  brother.  A  man  needs  a  guide, 
philosopher,  and  friend  in  this  menagerie,"  replied  Julian, 
glibly. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do  to-night :  we'll  go  to  the 
Belshazzar,  first  night.  I  can  get  the  tickets.  All  the 
fashionable  women  will  be  there.  What  do  you  say?"  His 
tone  had  a  touch  of  reverence  on  the  words  '  fashionable 
women,'  as  if  they  were  to  him  something  paradisaical. 

The  jovial  secretary  enjoyed  piloting  amid  the  shoals  of 
the  metropolis  this  young  fellow,  his  inferior  in  worldly 
wisdom,  his  superior  in  birth  and  education,  in  all  the  gen 
tlemanly  points.  Mr.  Mancutt  liked  to  associate  with 


130  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

gentlemen.  Then,  too,  Mr.  Mancutt  was  of  the  unclassi 
fied;  society  had  not  yet  accepted  him  unconditionally, 
though  conscious  of  the  fact  that  John  Gay's  confidential 
man  was  stuffed  with  possible  futures.  But  he  had  no 
parallel  sympathies  with  the  "swells/'  by  whom  he  was  re 
garded  as  an  industrious  ant ;  and  those  business  men  with 
whom  he  fought  down  town  had  neither  his  thirty-two  years 
nor  his  keenness  after  life.  Thus  Julian  was  a  windfall. 
The  secretary  was  the  young  man's  constant  companion, 
his  instructor  in  ways  metropolitan.  In  return  the  rising 
secretary  profited  by  Julian's  entree,  and  he  used  the  hand 
some  scion  of  New  England  Brahminism  as  a  propeller  to 
steer  his  own  tramp-schooner  into  the  wharves  of  fashion. 

''There's  Gay's  house  all  open  and  newly  swept  and 
garnished,"  the  secretary  said,  as  they  approached  the  brown 
bulk. 

The  hollands  were  gone  from  the  windows  and  the  huge 
pile  seemed  awake,  like  some  monstrous  animal  with  fifty 
eyes. 

''The  family  got  back  from  Europe  two  days  ago,"  the 
secretary  continued.  "I  went  down  to  see  them  through 
the  custom  house.  Miss  Vivian,  the  unmarried  one,  wanted 
to  know  about  her  father's  new  find,  as  she  called  you,  young 
man.  I  told  her  what  a  handsome  cuss  you  were,  and  she 
is  quite  anxious  to  see  you." 

"  Thanks,"  replied  Julian,  drily,  "  but  you  are  a  little  too 
soon.  Mr.  Gay  has  not  invited  me  to  his  house." 

"  And  never  will,"  laughed  the  secretary.  "  Damn  it, 
young  man,  don't  you  know  the  American  girl  is  a  majority 
of  the  directors  every  time  ?  If  Vivian  wants  to  see  you, 
you  will  be  forthcoming,  right  along  ;  Gay  never  notices." 
He  had  that  familiarity  with  the  family  dispositions  a  life 
long  servant  displays.  Indeed,  he  was  attache  to  the 
ladies,  as  well  as  kitchen-cabinet  to  the  operator. 

"  0  Lord,  what  divine  luck  !     There's  Vivian  now,  com- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          131 

ing  down  the  steps.  We'll  pass  her  just  as  she  gets  into  the 
carriage.  When  she  has  once  seen  you,  she'll  need  no  more 
persuasions.  So  come  along  and  look  handsome."  Mr. 
Mancutt  increased  his  pace. 

Before  the  great  circle  of  the  entrance,  backed  by  the 
dimness  of  its  deep  recess,  upon  the  stone  platform  of  the 
steps,  she  stood,  one  hand  on  the  balustrade  and  one  hold 
ing  her  saffron  parasol — an  instant's  picture.  Pedestalled 
on  the  stairs  of  a  millionaire,  staged  by  a  palace,  she  looked 
the  statue  of  a  great  Parisian  doll ;  and  when  she  moved 
her  little  feet  daintily  down  the  steps,  her  miniature  pro 
portions  were  revealed  and  lent  semblance  to  the  conceit 
her  profusion  of  dress  had  suggested.  Another,  a  larger 
woman,  would  have  glared  in  her  attire.  Overloaded,  fur- 
belowed,  beribboned,  belaced,  bejewelled,  the  tiny  creature 
was  not  barbarous,  but  exquisite.  Her  innate  artificialness 
chimed  with  her  costume.  The  golden  shade  of  her  dress 
dazzled  like  a  gleam  of  the  footlights,  her  gilt  boots  stained 
the  pavement  with  a  burnished  shadow. 

Just  as  she  reached  the  sidewalk,  she  caught  sight  of  the 
secretary  and  his  friend.  She  bowed  to  the  secretary — 
almost  imperceptibly,  more  with  her  eyebrows  than  her 
head.  A  queen's  head  should  not  be  a  pendulum.  But  she 
shot  a  repeated  glance  at  his  friend  over  her  shoulder,  on 
her  way  across  the  sidewalk  to  her  carnage.  Those  violet 
eyes,  so  large  that  they  seemed  to  exclude  the  face,  those 
scarlet  lips  that  ciu-ved  with  alluring  interrogates,  that 
bloom  of  the  rose-leaf's  first  powder  on  the  delicate  blonde 
cheeks  ;  all  that  face  that  tapered  to  the  chin,  looked  out 
from  the  gold-brown  hair  and  the  wide-drooping  hat  and 
seemed  to  say  seductively  to  him,  "How  beautiful  we  two 
are!" 

Julian  had  the  nerves  of  genius  ;  the  slight  variations  of 
weather  awakened  new  moods.  This  exquisite  porcelain 
girl,  this  cunning  manufacture,  this  charming  blending  of 


132  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

sensuous  flesh  and  Parisian  drapery,  touched  one  man  in 
him,  as  the  severe  spiritual  beauty  of  Margaret  Ballard's 
regular  features  had  appealed  to  the  Puritan  and  the  as- 
pirer,  buried  below  his  senses.  His  was  that  ductile  tem 
perament,  that  sweet  nature,  the  god's  gifts  to  poetic 
beings,  which  under  Parnassus  would  have  ripened  and 
bloomed,  which  in  America  consumes  its  heart.  Environ 
ment,  is  it  not  everything — that  which  fates  a  soul  an 
artist  or  a  drudge  ?  Miss  Gay  placed  a  foot  on  the  carriage- 
step,  while  the  gilt  heel  of  the  other  flung  back  the  drapery 
of  her  skirt  and  for  a  moment  exposed  a  golden  ankle. 

"  She's  a  beauty,  a  thoroughbred!"  cried  Mr.  Mancutt, 
enthusiastically,  as  the  two  watched  her  carriage  roll  onwards 
with  the  tide  towards  the  Park.  "You  saw  that  ankle? 
Well,  did  you  notice  the  curve  of  the  hip,  when  she  stepped 
into  the  carriage,  as  her  dress  drew  close  across  ?  She's 
lovely,"  he  added  softly.  Worship  of  women,  even  if  noth 
ing  higher  than  that  based  on  physical  veneration,  abides 
with  the  most  material  Americans. 

"What  do  you  think  of  her  ?"  demanded  the  secretary, 
challenging  his  admiration. 

"  Miss  Vivian  is  very  vivid,  certainly,"  said  Julian  de 
murely. 

The  other  laughed,  and  added,  "Seeing  that  I  can't 
marry  her  myself,  I  expect  you  to,  and — see  that  you  re 
member  me  when  you've  got  your  hands  in  her  father's 
pockets." 

Julian  had  a  shrewd  idea  that  Mr.  Mancutt  engineered 
too  much.  He  was  no  cat's-paw.  The  secretary  under 
estimated,  perhaps,  the  young  New  Englander's  perceptions; 
for  Julian's  lack  of  commercial  smartness  and  of  that  cheap 
humor  which  does  duty  for  cynical  insight  implied  to  ^his 
New  York  floater  a  certain  want  of  discernment.  How 
ever,  the  secretary's  good-nature  was  so  contagious  and  his 
"  putting  on  to  the  ropes"  led  to  such  good  times  that  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          133 

younger  man  was  more  than  willing  to  reimburse  his  moni 
tor  for  his  pains  by  extending  him  a  social  towline.  Yet 
Julian's  independence  resented  Mr.  Mancutt's  last  sugges 
tion,  and  he  showed  it. 

"Come,  don't  sulk,  my  handsome  friend,"  expostulated 
the  secretary.  "  I  meant  what  I  said,  and  I  intend  seriously 
to  help  you  to  it.  I  am  quite  an  ally  there,  let  me  tell  you; 
and  I've  had  lots  of  fine  fellows,  bloods,  request  the  '  cour 
tesy  '  of  my  assistance.  So  wake  up,  go  in  and  win,  and 
thank  God  that  in  these  hard  days  there  are  heiresses  to  be 
bridled." 

Was  the  secretary  serious  ?  Mr.  Mancutt  had  very  clear 
notions  of  things. 

The  afternoon  of  the  next  Sunday  Julian  lounged  into 
Mr.  Mancutt's  rooms  by  appointment. 

Mr.  Mancutt  stood  before  a  mirror,  buttoning  his  collar. 
"Hello,  my  crusher!  Sit  down;  I've  a  great  thing  for  you. 
Darn  the  button — you're  a  regular  two  horse-team,  a  whole 
English  tandem,  footman,  dog  underneath,  and  all." 

"  What's  up  ?"  cried  Julian  in  amazement. 

"  A  note  from  the  vivid  Vivian,  and  invites  me  and  you 
— you,  as  a  collateral  merely — to  Sunday  lunch." 

"  Sunday  lunch  !  What's  that  ?  To-day  ?"  ejaculated 
Julian  in  bursts,  the  thrill  of  an  exciting  novelty  coursing 
his  spine. 

"Oh,  it's  informal;  no  classic  distinction.  They  have 
dinner  there  on  Sundays  at  two  and  lunch  at  six  ;  very  light, 
sit  round  and  servants  prance  up  to  you.  Awful  cosey, 
though." 

Mancutt  finished  arraying  his  cravat  and  went  across  the 
room  for  his  coat,  which  hung  over  the  back  of  a  chair. 

"  Well,  tell  me  about  it.  Whom  shall  we  see  ?  Mr.  Gay?" 
queried  Julian. 

"Just  brush  your  collar  a  little  and  resume  your  over 
coat.  She  wants  us  to  come  promptly,  and  it's  a  fifteen- 


134  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

minutes  walk  up  the  Avenue.  I'll  tell  you  the  family  annals 
as  we  trot." 

The  New  York  weather  was  on  deck.  The  gray  and 
vaporous  clouds  let  down  inists,  as  huge  steamers  lower 
boats  from  their  steep  sides.  They  trailed  along  the 
low  sky,  looking  as  if  some  celestial  washerwoman  might 
wring  bucketfuls  from  their  surcharged  sheets.  All  was 
gray.  The  vista  of  the  Avenue  was  spotted  with  gleams 
on  watery  surfaces,  where  the  lights  enlarged  their  circles 
with  the  growing  night.  The  great  houses  masked  their 
fronts  in  sable,  and  the  cathedral,  as  they  passed,  loomed 
weirdly  up  through  the  thickening  night,  incongruous  in 
this  new-world  line  of  power  and  palaces — the  ghost  of  the 
Middle  Age  haunting  the  Babylon  of  nineteenth-century 
democracy. 

The  two  men  stepped  briskly.  "With  his  vital  temperament 
the  secretary  enjoyed  the  disagreeablenesses  of  the  weather; 
for  there  would  be  a  grateful  contrast  once  inside  the 
warmth  and  cuddled  up  to  the  luxury  of  the  Gay  sitting- 
room. 

Julian  moved  as  in  a  daze.  This  immensity  of  the  world 
of  money,  which  he  had  read  of  and  had  dimly  conjectured 
about  in  Exmoor — how  was  it  that  its  miracles  impended 
over  him?  He  felt  numb.  This  young  fellow  who  had  de 
claimed  Carlyle  and  believed  with  Plato,  who  had  always 
associated  aristocracy  with  letters  and  intellect,  quailed  be 
fore  the  stupendous  imminence  of  the  money-power,  of  this 
gigantic  materialism,  through  whose  main  artery  he  was 
now  walking  to  the  palace  of  one  of  the  richest  men  on  the 
planet.  He  was  abashed.  A  shame  of  himself,  of  his 
birthplace,  of  his  father's  celebrity,  even,  choked  his  manly 
independence.  What  were  culture,  education,  literature, 
ideals,  before  this  buttressed  massiveness  of  wealth? — mere 
mists  of  the  mind,  hallucinations  of  needy  vanity;  windy 
fabrics  with  which  the  naked  clothed  themselves,  swathed 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          135 

their  pennilessness  in;  a  moonshine-robe  in  which  the  im 
pecunious  proud  might  strut  and  fool  themselves,  nursing 
a  phantom  superiority. 

When  the  two  came  beneath  the  Gay  mansion,  Julian  had 
the  sensations  an  Athenian  must  have  experienced,  circled 
by  the  colossal  arches  of  Vespasian's  imperial  circus.  Force 
crushed  out  soul;  and  what  the  legions  of  Rome  were  to 
Hellenic  civilization,  that,  was  this  stone  house  to  him.  As 
they  passed  within  the  entrance,  Julian  involuntarily  meas 
ured  with  his  eye  the  enormous  blocks  of  the  arch;  their 
silent  solidity  mocked  his  fitful  ideals  and  the  intermission 
of  his  moods. 

An  imported  English  flunkey  swept  back  the  door  with  a 
snap.  The  sharp  secretary  watched  the  servant's  reception 
of  Julian.  The  Englishman,  with  the  air  of  assisting  a  lord* 
removed  the  young  man's  coat.  The  secretary  was  satisfied; 
if  Julian  passed  muster  with  Mr.  Gay's  door-keeper,  Mr. 
Gay's  daughter  would  not  criticise  his  air. 

A  spacious  hall,  half  filled  with  a  grand  staircase,  pierced 
deep  into  the  body  of  the  house.  Its  size,  its  sumptuous 
appointment,  the  wide  sweep  of  the  great  stairs,  ornamented 
with  figures  of  bronze,  dazzled  Julian.  They  were  shown 
into  the  sitting-room,  a  square  little  space,  fringed  with 
divans,  and  crowded  with  cushioned  furniture,  suffocated, 
as  it  were,  with  comfort.  It  was  next  the  Avenue,  and  the 
shrill  tenor  of  the  uptown  streets,  so  unlike  the  heavy  sus 
tained  rumble  that  fills  the  lower  city,  rattled  feebly  through 
the  walls.  Julian's  latent  luxury,  his  Italian  voluptuous 
ness,  repressed  so  long  in  Puritan  Exmoor,  burst  out  in  the 
presence  of  this  profusion.  The  situation  excited  him,  the 
colors  stirred  his  art-sense;  the  fragrance  that  wandered  in 
and  out  the  curtains,  the  black  lustre  of  the  silver-bound 
Spanish  cabinet, — all  acted  upon  him  and  made  him  a 
beautiful  creature;  his  nostrils  fanned  like  a  panther's,  and 
his  eyes  grew  liquid  flame.  He  sat  just  in  front  of  a  portiere 


136  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

of  deep  red,  an  admirable  background.  Even  Mancutt 
became  alive  to  the  sudden  glory  of  this  young  manhood, 
thus  opportunely  magnified,  as  Athena  on  occasion  oblig 
ingly  improved  Ulysses. 

A  peal  of  soprano  laughter,  tinkling  down  corridors,  and 
preceded  by  a  curly  dog,  Miss  Vivian  Gay  floated  between 
the  hangings  and  stopped  just  clear  of  the  curtains.  Man 
cutt  was  on  the  watch. 

In  all  young  love  there  is  much  that  is  physical,  and 
even  the  most  exalted  passions  have  a  secret  physical 
affinity,  the  suggestion  of  which  is  spurned,  but  whose 
potency  is  fact.  Vivian  carried  with  her  a  physical  con 
tagion  which  caught  our  country  scholar  just  when  his 
senses  were  most  tuned  to  receive  impressions.  And  then, 
she  was  his  physical  complement — blonde  to  his  olive,  petite 
to  his  height,  plump  to  his  slender,  artificially  lovely,  like 
a  wax  flower,  to  the  magnificence  of  his  natural  strength. 

She  came  forward  at  Mancutt's  introduction  in  her  pretty 
gracious  way,  inviting  admiration  and  appealing  to  you,  as 
it  were,  if  she  were  not  a  ravishing  bit.  She  held  out  her 
small  jewelled  hand  with  exquisite  coquetry  which  flattered 
and  allured.  The  siren  lifted  her  rose-leaf  lids  timidly, 
and  let  the  violet  eyes  swim  over  his  face  in  one  glance, 
frankly,  like  a  child;  the  young  man  felt  their  hue  suffuse 
him,  as  a  purple  mist  might  do.  She  was  such  a  miniature 
of  a  woman,  every  piece  of  her  perfect,  but  turned  out  on 
a  reduced  scale. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Clyde.  Papa  has  told 
me  all  about  you,  you  know.  He  enjoyed  his  visit  to  your 
house  so  much,  and  he  says  Exmoor  is  such  a  very  lovely 
town." 

She  told  them  to  sit  down,  saying  her  sister,  Mrs.  Sax- 
ton,  was  not  quite  ready  to  appear.  She  seated  herself  in 
a  very  big  chair,  whose  sitting  surface  was  very  deep.  She 
did  not  talk  much.  The  secretary  rattled  out  common- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          137 

places  and  his  society  funniness,  in  that  way  relieving  the 
tenseness  in  the  situation  of  a  beautiful  small  witch-girl, 
first  meeting  a  decidedly  interesting  young  fellow. 

Vivian  lolled  on  her  seat,  her  little  feet  just  touching 
the  floor  with  their  outstretched  toes.  She  had  a  feline 
grace  of  movement,  and  curled  herself  into  comfort,  like 
an  old  cat  before  the  fire.  Each  garment  seemed  so  mi 
nutely  exquisite.  The  sleeves  looked  chubby  and  infantile, 
and  the  bracelets  round  the  plump  wrists  were  of  so  reduced 
a  circumference.  The  whole  impression  was  that  Worth 
had  made  an  outfit  for  a  big  doll,  only  the  doll  was  alive. 
To  Julian  with  his  Italian  feelers  thrown  out  like  the  sen 
sitive  hair-spirals  of  a  plant,  to  feel  and  to  writhe  at  any 
incongruity,  any  break  in  beauty,  this  artificial  perfection 
was  exquisite,  because  it  was  altogether  harmonious  with 
itself,  its  very  conventionality  forbidding  "gaucherie;"  thus 
to  him  it  was  more  seductive  than  a  proud  and  regal  beauty, 
or  any  charm  of  genius  even,  because  all  natural  heats  by 
their  very  force  verge  on  vulgarity  or  bad  taste,  and  a 
touch  tips  them  into  offence. 

They  had  not  been  seated  five  minutes  before  Mrs.  Sax- 
ton  came  in. 

Julian  was  struck  with  Mrs.  Saxton's  resemblance  to  her 
father — the  same  commanding  height,  the  same  chiselled 
implacable  countenance,  the  same  finished  mould  to  all  the 
features.  There  were  the  same  straight  imperious  brows, 
decisive  nose  an'd  long  face,  pasted  over  with  a  woman's  soft 
skin,  and  scarred  by  no  battles. 

Mr.  Gay  was  away,  driving  his  fast  horse  supposably,  but 
no  one  really  knew.  Mr.  Saxton  would  be  in  soon.  These 
were  explained. 

Mrs.  Saxton  talked  with  the  secretary.  He  sat  with  his 
forearms  on  his  knees,  his  body  leant  forward.  He  spoke 
to  her  with  an  intimate's  air.  Julian  stood  with  Vivian 
before  some  pictures.  The  little  beauty  entertained  him 


138  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

easiest  this  way.  She  told  him  where  in  Europe  they  had 
picked  up  this  picture  or  that  trifle  this  last  summer,  and 
then  she  would  turn  her  big  innocent  eyes  on  him,  like 
batteries  unmasked  on  unarmored  ships;  she  enjoyed  the 
evident  effect  of  her  volleys. 

Presently  the  secretary  asked  Vivian  to  get  him  that 
thing  she  promised  him  two  days  ago. 

"It's  a  present  from  Paris,  I  believe.  Just  like  you  to 
pick  it  up  for  me."  Vivian  and  he  drew  aside  together, 
chaffing. 

Mrs.  Saxton  approached  Julian. 

Perhaps  Mancutt  had  given  her  the  cue.  At  any  rate, 
she  sat  down  by  the  young  man's  side  and  smiled  over  him, 
looked  pleased  and  interested  and  so  won  him — as  any  rich 
and  powerful  woman  can  win  any  crude  young  fellow  whose 
lot  is  struggle  and  aspiration  for  the  future.  She  was  just 
sufficiently  matronly  and  good-looking  and  patronizing,  and 
he  found  himself  telling  her  how  he  came  to  New  York  and 
what  he  wanted  to  do. 

"  I  think  you  were  wise,  very  wise,  in  coming  to  New 
York,"  said  Mrs.  Saxton,  after  Julian  had  hinted  at  his 
hesitation  in  essaying  practical  life.  "  Especially  if  one  is 
ambitious,  this  city  is  the  place  for  him.  I  think  sedentary 
pursuits  always  leave  a  man  discontented;  he  must  feel  as 
if  he  had  not  done  all  or  lived  wholly.  I  know  how  it  is, 
you  see,  for  my  own  husband  has  the  scholarly  drift;  but 
now  he  is  with  papa  and  he  is  much  happier." 

"And  after  all,"  said  Julian,  philosophically,  "one  had 
best  go  with  his  generation.  The  thinker  has  no  place  in 
this  generation ;  they  don't  want  him.  So,  you  know,  if  a 
man  exhausts  half  his  force  in  resisting  the  tide  and  in  em 
banking  his  position  so  that  the  world  will  allow  him  to 
think,  he  hasn't  got  much  left  to  think  with.  It  is  not 
worth  the  game." 

"True,"  assented  Mrs.  Saxton,  as  if  she  were  endorsing 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

an  opinion  long  ago  thought  out  by  her.  She  did  not  ex 
actly  know  what  he  meant;  nevertheless,  "  It  is  most  true," 
she  repeated,  in  the  oracular  tone  of  the  infallible  society 
goddess. 

Julian  was  flattered  with  her  graciousness  and  that  his 
own  ideas  were  so  intelligible  to  a"grande  dame."  He 
was  about  to  say  some  more,  but  she  interrupted:  "And 
then,  such  men  get  such  miserably  wretched  little  salaries. 
Bah!"  and  she  poked  up  her  plutocratic  nose  in  infinite 
scorn  of  the  meagre  possibilities  in  that  infinitesimal  pay. 
Julian  felt  that  a  life  of  ideas  was  contemptible. 

He  said,  "  After  all,  a  fellow  likes  consideration  and 
money.  That  is  the  first  thing,  after  all  canting  is  laid 
aside." 

Mrs.  Saxton  understood  him  now;  he  spoke  her  own 
world's  vernacular.  "  Good !  That  is  excellently  said. 
Ambition  is  splendid;  if  I  were  a  man,  I  should  go  far,  far 
as  effort  and  ambition  would  put  me.  And  then,  you  know, 
as  you  grow  older  your  needs  multiply,  and  you  want  more 
and  more  money.  New  York  will  cure  you  of  all  feeling 
like  yours,  iu  a  very  short  time.  You  will  get  into  the  rush, 
and  that  costs.  You  will  want  a  great  deal  in  a  few  years." 

A  gentleman  of  thirty-five,  perhaps,  came  over  the  carpet 
with  noiseless  tread  and  stood  for  a  moment  behind  Mrs. 
Saxton's  chair,  unperceived  by  her.  He  touched  her 
shoulder.  She  started.  "  Oh,  it's  you,"  she  said  indiffer 
ently,  and  introduced  him  as  her  husband.  He  bowed 
silently  to  Julian  and  passed  to  an  easy  chair,  dropping 
just  the  slightest  recognition  to  the  secretary.  The  latter 
looked  cool.  Somehow  there  was  a  deprecatory  tone  about 
Mrs.  Saxton's  husband,  Julian  thought. 

Lunch  was  served  by  two  servants;  it  was  elegant,  and 
Julian  liked  good  things.  The  conversation  became  gen 
eral;  they  were  all  quite  gay,  and  they  laughed  heartily  at 
the  secretary's  droll  stories.  Julian  enjoyed  himself;  he 


140  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

always  hated  Sunday  evenings  in  New  York,  it  was  the 
time  he  missed  Exmoor  and  his  old_circle  up  there.  But 
this  was  different. 

The  secretary  and  his  protege  left  about  nine  o'clock. 
The  door  closed  behind  them,  suddenly  substituting  for 
warmth  and  ease  the  grim  walls  of  the  house-fronts  and  the 
wet  granite  of  the  avenue.  The  mist  had  sprinkled  into 
rain. 

On  the  lowest  step  of  the  entrance-stairs  a  huddle  of 
thin  garments  and  shivering  flesh  implored  the  elegantly 
attired  men  who  emerged.  Julian  looked  into  the  battered 
face  of  the  hag.  This  vision  of  bleared,  red  eyes  and  scrof 
ulous,  scrawny  vulture-neck,  twisting  out  of  stained  and 
tattered  rags  of  shawl,  introduced  a  sudden  cataclysm  into 
the  serenity  of  happy  digestion  and  pretty  memories,  made 
up  of  beautiful  rooms,  delicious  lunch,  and  lovely  women. 
It  was  a  shock  of  ice  liquid  dashed  over  roseate  shoulders, 
the  cloven  foot  of  the  unpleasant  thrust  from  beneath  the 
robes  of  innocent  happiness.  When  Julian  walked  on,  all 
the  avenue  seemed  full  of  two  faces,  whose  cheeks  jostled 
each  other, — the  doll-face  with  its  violet  eyes,  and  the  hag 
gard  skull,  outlined  beneath  the  livid  skin  drawn  tight  as 
a  drum-head. 

Beneath  the  palace  marble  of  the  democratic  rich  squats 
the  pauper  of  free  society.  That  stone  street  of  impreg 
nable  fortunes,  miles  in  length,  slabbed  with  dollars,  with 
out  precedent  in  history,  the  illumined  page  America 
holds  up  to  Europe  as  proof  of  our  success — this,  the 
embodied  goal  of  the  fortunate  in  a  land  where  fortune  is 
his  who  can  grasp  with  fingers  of  steel,  has  its  vermin,  its 
lice,  flattened  on  the  pavements  and  clinging  to  its  stairs, 
which  emerge  mysteriously  from  the  slums  that  make  black 
the  city  on  either  hand.  0  Democracy,  0  Millennium  for 
very  tired  humanity!  human  nature  has  followed  hard 
upon  you,  not  to  be  exorcised  by  chantings  of  blatant- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          141 

mouthed  optimists,  not  to  be  shaken  off  over  seas,  and  left 
in  the  Old  World,  nor  yet  to  be  made  as  it  ought.  Passion 
of  man's  heart,  selfishness  of  his  head,  hunger  derived  from 
law,  and  pain  imposed  by  God — these  exist,  and  New  York 
has  but  repeated  Paris  and  London,  as  democratic  man  re 
tains  the  nature  of  much-governed  man,  and  cannot  fight 
loose  of  it. 

And  yet,  in  this  new  land  the  presence  of  this  old-world 
poverty  has  a  peculiar  pathos,  all  its  own.  America  prom 
ised  so  much  and  believed  so  much;  she  held  out  her 
hands  to  the  poor  of  all  nations,  to  the  oppressed  of  the 
earth.  Out  from  this  new  soil  a  new  society  was  to  grow, 
made  novel  by  the  absence  of  the  curse  of  hunger  and  op 
pression.  Oh,  we  were  so  well  favored,  the  events  of  history 
had  conspired  together  to  give  us  a  fair  show!  What  has 
followed  ?  We,  that  began  the  race  so  well,  are  we  winded  ? 
Are  we  too  staggering  around  the  ring,  as  all  have  done 
before  us?  Does  the  Cape  Horn,  around  which  lies  peace, 
stretch  its  rugged  length  out  into  storms,  impassable, 
treacherous,  menacing  ?  Shall  a  Cape  of  Good  Hope  never 
arise  out  of  the  Atlantic  of  years  for  us  ?  Can  Democracy 
not  resist  those  social  vices  that  attack  the  others?  Ah! 
if  the  hundred  years'  history  of  the  American  Republic 
teach  anything,  the  old  lesson  is  proclaimed,  that  there  is 
no  perfection  under  the  sun,  that  government  and  its  func 
tion  are  limited,  and  that  nomenclature  is  wind,  that  hu 
manity  carries  itself  on  its  own  back  and  its  salvation  de 
pends  on  its  inner  self. 

Hidden  within  the  high  walls  of  the  Gay  house,  sepa 
rated  by  a  stone  partition  from  all  the  significance  of  that 
street,  its  construction,  its  walkers,  its  vermin,  its  impos 
ing  magnificence, — a  frivolous  girl  chatted  in  her  boudoir  to 
her  maid.  To  her  slight  existence  what  were  nature,  hu 
manity,  the  city,  the  Avenue,  the  huddle  upon  her  steps, 
or  the  destiny  of  the  young  soul  that  trod  the  pavements 


142  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

homeward  from  her  doors  ?  Vivian  was  only  interested  in 
the  curl  of  her  hair,  in  her  chubby  soft  feet  couched  upon 
the  cushion,  in  her  plump  white  shoulders.  Is  not  imagi 
nation  the  differential  that  divides  individuals  into  groups  ? 
Vivian  was  amiable,  she  was  sweet  and  not  very  selfish; 
but  society  was  an  atmosphere  about  herself,  not  an  organ 
ism,  distinct  and  importunate  with  its  needs  and  pains. 
Imagination  never  lifted  the  contented  creature's  eyes 
above  the  level  of  the  walls  of  her  ego.  That  poor  hag 
was  a  thing  to  slip  a  quarter  to,  when  she  descended  from 
her  carriage;  but  whence  the  haggard  face  or  the  why  of 
its  existence  or  the  conditions  that  spawned  it — the 
daughter  of  John  Gay  never  got  a  gleam  of  the  idea  that 
she  and  the  parasite  were  the  two  poles  of  a  social  sphere, 
that  the  laws  of  social  economy  bound  them  together,  each 
the  cause  and  effect  of  the  other. 

Jeannette,  the  maid,  brushed  the  long  hair  of  her  mis 
tress.  This  was  the  hour  of  confidence,  when  Vivian  con 
fessed  to  her  maid  all  her  vanities,  her  fancies  and  her 
frivolous  plans  of  pleasure.  Jeannette  knew  how  to  handle 
the  reins;  she  flattered  the  conceit  of  the  small  beauty. 

Vivian  was  half  extended  in  a  long  chair,  her  shoulders 
and  feet  naked.  She  held  a  hand-glass  and  surveyed  her 
face  microscopically.  In  the  intervals  of  admiring  her 
face's  reflection,  she  drew  up  her  foot  and  patted  her 
"  cute  "  toes. 

"  Now,  Jeannette,  did  you  really  see  him  ?  Wasn't  he 
handsome,  though  ?  Such  symmetrical  limbs !  I  do  hate  an 
ill-shaped  man."  Vivian  spoke  with  her  mouth  close  to 
the  mirror  and  the  breath  obscured  its  surface. 

"  He  was  a  very  nice-lookin'  gentleman,  I  am  sure,  Miss 
Vivy.  I  seen  him  as  Dolph  went  in  with  the  tea.  I  looked 
over  Dolph'sback,  it  is  so  big,"  answered  the  maid,  in  an 
unctuous  tone,  imparting  a  long,  soothing  sweep  to  her 
brush.  She  had  made  a  study  of  brushing  Vivian's  hair 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          143 

and  got  the  effect  of  each  variety  of  stroke  down  to  a 
science.  Now  that  her  mistress  felt  romantic  and  rumi 
nating,  she  used  prolonged  brushings,  soft  and  dexterous. 

"Don't  you  think  him  quite  as  handsome  as  I  told  you 
he  was  that  time  I  saw  him  on  the  Avenue ?''  asked  Vivian, 
still  looking  into  the  glass  and  pushing  her  nose  a  little  bit 
to  the  right  with  her  forefinger  to  see  the  effect. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Vivy,  he  is  more  handsome  than  that.  He's 
jnst  beautiful  like  a  girl,  if  he  only  weren't  so  tall.  Why, 
if  I  were  a  girl  I  should  go  wild  over  him,"  replied  the 
maid,  ceasing  her  brushing,  and  striking  the  back  of  the 
brush  on  one  hand. 

"Well,  Jeannette,  he  certainly  is  good-looking,"  said 
Vivian  with  a  drawl.  "What  if  I  should  marry  "him 
—what  would  you  say  ?"  The  possible  husband  was  fre 
quently  suggested  between  them. 

"  Say!  I  shouldn't  be  astonished,  though  the  young  gen 
tleman  in  question  is  not  a  millionare.  You'd  show  your 
taste  anyway,  and  the  girls  who  marry  the  rich  uglies 
would  be  mad  about  your  husband's  good  looks,  wouldn't 
they,  now  ?' 

"  Husband!"  cried  Vivian,  in  assumed  alarm,  "husband! 
Oh,  Jeannette!  don't  it  seem  queer?"  Vivian  giggled. 

''You've  got  to  get  one  some  day,  Miss  Vivy;  and  as  for 
looks,  you  will  have  to  go  a  long  way  to  strike  his  match." 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  is  true.  Any  way  I  intend  to  suit 
myself  in  the  man.  I  don't  care  a  cent  for  titles,  and  that 
bow-legged  Lord  St.  Edmonds  may  as  well  get  out,  for  I'll 
never  have  him.  I  am  rich  enough  to  do  as  I  please,  and 
if  I  want  to  buy  a  husband,  I  shall  please  myself,  just  as  I 
do  about  another  new  gown  or  a  ball-dress." 

"You  may  as  well,  Miss  Vivy.  One  buys  candies  as 
suits  them,  and  diamonds  and  dresses.  Now  there's  more 
enjoyment  in  the  proper  kind  of  a  husband  than  in  any  of 
them  others,  and  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  suit  your- 


144  THE  SHADOW  OE  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

self,  as  much  about  one  as  the  other."  Jeannette  chimed 
in  with  her  mistress's  sentiments  on  all  occasions. 

She  always  did.  That  was  the  reason  of  her  favorable 
fortune.  When  she  was  chambermaid  back  in  the  old 
house  on  Lexington  Avenue,  she  had  flattered  Miss  Vivian, 
she  had  used  every  little  opportunity  to  gain  the  good 
graces  of  this  millionaire's  princess.  As  a  result  a  year  after 
Mrs.  Gay's  death,  Vivian  had  advanced  her  to  the  position 
of  maid  over  all  French  candidates.  She  had  increased  in 
favor  from  thence  afterwards. 

"I  do  intend  to  suit  myself,"  announced  Vivian  with 
emphasis.  "  How  I'd  like  to  kiss  him  once !"  she  added 
impulsively. 

"Oh,  Miss  Vivian?" 

"  It  isn't  shocking  at  all,  so  you  needn't  '  Oh'  me.  You 
would  like  to  yourself,  you  know  you  would,"  cried  Vivian, 
blushing  in  her  glass. 

"  Mebbe  I  would,  and  mebbe  you  would  let  me!"  said 
Jeannette,  sententiously. 

"  I  couldn't  interfere.     I  don't  own  him." 

"  Perhaps  you  don't,  but  you  could  to-morrow,"  rejoined 
the  maid.  "  You  could  buy  him  up,  and  he'd  be  bought 
easy,  you're  so  beautiful." 

"  Let  me  see,  let  me  see,"  mused  Vivian.  "  Mrs.  Julian 
Clyde,  Vivian  Gay  Clyde — it  does  sound  distingue,  and 
then — I'm  so  rich  and  he  would  be  so  aristocratic-looking. 
Mrs.  Julian  Clyde  would  dazzle  New  York.  Do  you  know, 
Jeannette  ?"  she  said  to  her  maid,  who  stroked  her  hair  with 
caressing  touches,  "  I  think  I'll  marry  him.  He's  got  a 
swell  name  and  he  is  so  crushingly  handsome.  Then  I 
like  New  York  better  than  Europe.  Women  are  so  re 
strained  there;  and  then,  you  know  he'd  be  dependent  on 
me,  and  I'd  rather  have  a  man  dependent.  I'm  rich,  and 
that  means  to  do  as  one  chooses.  When  I  get  a  little  sick 
of  him,  I  could  just  go  off,  push  him  out  of  the  way  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          145 

« 

have  a  good  time.  I  think  I'll  get  married — a  girl  has 
more  liberty  than  when  she  hasn't  got  a  husband  to  lend 
her  a  Mrs." 

And  this  patrician  of  the  New  Babylon  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  II. 

BUSINESS — IDEALS. 

WHEN"  the  master  of  realism  wished  to  represent  one  of 
his  young  men  as  grown  hard,  as  crystallized  into  evil, 
he  plunged  Philippe  Bridau  into  New  York,  as  a  black 
smith  plunges  his  horseshoe  into  water  to  temper  it. 
There  in  that  community,  "the  most  individualistic  on 
earth,"  as  Balzac  says,  all  the  selfish  instincts  of  the  young 
Frenchman  were  drawn  out  by  force,  as  a  magnet  selects 
the  iron  and  leaves  the  gold.  The  great  modern  delineator 
of  humanity  divined  the  American  Babylon  aright.  Here, 
where  commerce  is  concentrated  and  bargain  has  her 
temple,  where  is  archetyped,  as  it  were,  the  energy  and 
shrewd  calculation  of  the  American  people,  where  ambi 
tious  young  men  throng  from  the  extent  of  a  continent, 
where  are  no  citizens  and  only  fortune-hunters  and  money- 
spenders,  where  is  little  or  no  interest  in  the  community, 
where  people  roost  but  do  not  dwell,  where  the  tide  brings 
up  new  faces  every  day  and  carries  them  out  to  all  sides 
on  every  train, — the  self  is  enormously  enforced. 

We  are  all  strangers  in  New  York,  every  other  man  is  an 
alien;  and  we  are  fighters,  not  neighbors.  "  Love  of  city" 
has  a  strange  ring  about  it  to  us  who  regard  our  town  as  an 


146          THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

immense  stock-exchange  with  telegraphs  to  all  the  world, 
or  as  a  huge  caravansary,  where  we  tarry  a  while  for  pleas 
ure  or  for  gain.  But  obligation  or  affection  for  the  city's 
self — bah!  We  let  a  lot  of  immigrants  run  it  and  debauch 
it,  and  we  stumble  over  the  vilest  paving  in  the  world  to 
the  inside  of  our  palaces.  Don't  let  us  be  such  hyprocites 
as  to  pretend  to  any  civic  sense.  Each  for  himself,  and 
don't  mask!  The  very  configuration  of  the  narrow  island 
encourages  this  tendency.  Shut  up  between  two  deep  sea- 
arms,  buildings  are  crushed  on  a  strip  of  earth  and  rear 
themselves  high  up,  as  in  geology  a  plain  is  forced  up  into 
jagged  peaks  by  the  lateral  pressure.  This  tallest  of  towns 
has  grown  in  one  direction,  north,  and  the  immense  addi 
tions  to  her  bulk  of  late  years  have  all  been  erected  on  a 
three-mile-wide  strait  of  earth.  New  York  has  built  a 
tower  on  her  head  and  every  year  increases  the  congestion 
of  the  lower  quarters.  Thus  moderate  building  is  banished 
into  Long  Island  and  New  Jersey,  and  toppling  business- 
blocks  crowd  tenements  and  brownstone  residences. 

Balzac  wrote  fifty  years  ago,  and  since  then  the  spirit  he 
discerned  has  become  emphasized  into  a  peculiarity  and 
developed  into  distinctive  character. 

The  'strugglers  and  their  yawning  appetites,  the  adven 
turers  and  their  freedom,  the  millionaires  and  their  expen 
diture,  have  drained  into  this  sink  from  the  arteries  of  a 
continent,  and  are  clotted  here  together.  New  York  pre 
cedes  the  age  and  the  country  lags  after  her.  She  is  the 
prophecy  of  the  materialism  to  come,  the  prototype  of  the 
future,  the  Americanization  of  America,  the  funnel  of  the 
whole  whirlpool  of  commercial  and  individualistic  civiliza 
tion. 

The  immigration  is  filling  up  America's  interstices,  and 
slowly  wearing  down  the  old  community  of  English  habit 
and  Puritan  tone  which  made  us  a  nation  and  is  the  found 
ation  of  the  continental  civilization  to  come.  Here  and 


TEE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          147 

there  are  spots  like  Exmoor,  untouched  as  yet.  But  for  the 
most  part  the  masses  are  foreign  or  extracted  from  thence, 
and  to  be  purely  American  is  getting  to  be  an  accomplish 
ment  in  these  days.  The  influx  of  plebeian  Europe  has 
flowed  under  us  and  lifted  us,  as  a  flood  does  a  wooden 
village,  above  its  own  level,  the  sooner  to  swallow  us.  New 
York,  it  is  the  future,  that  radical  which  is  to  overcome 
us. 

When  he  first  met  Vivian,  Julian  Clyde  had  been  in  her 
father's  office  for  over  a  year.  A  year  of  New  York  had 
surged  over  him,  and  left  its  residuum  on  his  soul.  That 
•pirit  which  gave  itself  generously,  persuaded  that  there 
\vas  much  to  learn,  had  had  its  ductile  metal  shapen  as 
with  a  moulder's  instruments. 

He  never  forgot  his  first  day  of  business.  Trepidation 
sat  in  his  knees,  and  yet  an  elation  like  wine  coursed  his 
veins,  when  he  entered  the  elevated  train  with  a  sense  of  his 
destination  as  Wall  Street.  He  read  his  newspaper,  ranged 
with  the  other  brokers  and  big  business  men  in  the  car. 
The  speed,  the  faces,  the  portentous  hours  ahead  excited 
him,  used  as  he  was  to  the  empty  Exmoor  days.  To  dive 
out  of  Broadway  down  that  narrow  alley  of  commerce,  how 
delightful !  And  the  giant  blocks  above  him,  story  above 
story, — to  feel  that  he  belonged  there,  that  this  was  to  be  his 
familiar  environment,  gave  him  a  pride  in  himself.  He 
was  a  Wall  Street  man,  in  t!.3  whirl,  where  the  orchestra 
of  the  world  boomed  fastest.  How  had  he  ever  stagnated 
there  in  Exmoor  for  so  long  a  time? 

The  great  office  amazed  him.  The  succession  of  rooms, 
the  precision  of  movement,  the  subdued  intensity,  the 
counters  and  desks  and  books — a  labyrinth  of  labor,  an 
intricacy,  before  which  he  sat  helpless.  He  trembled  before 
this  spider-web  of  commerce,  where  flies  were  sucked  dry 
and  Gay  himself  was  the  monster  hidden  in  the  midst  and 
bastioned  by  bald-headed,  incisive  clerks.  A  fellow  of  less 


148          THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

imagination  would  not  have  been  stunned  like  Julian,  he 
would  have  only  been  eager  to  go  ahead.  But  for  Julian 
the  immensity,  the  intricacy  of  affairs  struck  home.  Could 
his  mind  ever  master  it? 

He  was  given  a  desk,  where  he  sat  for  two  hours  with 
nothing  to  do.  In  that  time  he  learned  the  carelessness  of 
power  and  the  indifference  of  the  world.  He  was  made  to 
realize  the  mathematical  implacability  of  the  machine  that 
dumped  baskets  of  gold  at  Gay's  feet.  The  secluded 
scholar,  who  had  all  his  life  dreamed  vain  dreams  and 
dissipated  in  great  thoughts  of  other  men,  understood  in 
reality  how  futile  he  was  and  how  mechanism  subjected 
mind.  When  a  clerk  came,  looking  respectful,  to  say  Mr. 
Gay  wished  to  see  him,  Julian  felt  faint,  his  knees  shook. 
Mr.  Gay  was  quite  another  personage  from  the  taciturn  and 
courteous  guest  of  his  father. 

"  Sit  down/'  a  bass  voice  with  an  imperious  note  in  it 
demanded.  "Young  man,  I  am  glad  to  have  you  in  my 
office.  A  word  or  two.  If  you  are  a  genius,  we  don't 
want  you.  We  want  a  man  of  head,  cool  and  common- 
sensed.  We  business  men  dislike  the  literary  fellows  quite 
as  much  as  do  the  politicians.  I  intend  to  give  you  a 
chance,  you  take  it.  Look  out  for  your  own.  Let  no  man 
take  you  in.  Take  nothing  for  granted,  and  get  there. 
Good-morning." 

Gay  oppressed  the  youth's  imagination.  The  image  of  the 
speculator  haunted  him.  This  stern  taciturn  man,  who  con 
trolled  fortune  and  broke  men  across  the  counters  of  his 
banking-house,  who  sat  ensconced  in  the  midst  of  turmoil 
and  held  a  hundred  reins,  who  drove  his  chariot  of  success 
skilfully  and  boldly  where  most  men  blanched  pale — in  the 
course  of  the  year  Julian  saw  him  impassive  in  the  thick  of 
business  rout,  marble  where  others  shivered  or  turned  hot 
with  desire — ever  the  same;  cold  as  fate,  never  out  of 
patience,  possessed  of  Italian  subtlety;  a  man  who  could 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          149 

wait  the  revolution  of  the  wheel  of  luck,  who  could  bend 
to  every  storm  and  play  a  weak  part,  who  could  descend  a 
pitiless  shock  at  the  very  moment  when  a  sudden  blow 
would  shatter.  He  had  something  of  the  Bismarck  in  him, 
with  a  little  Disraelian  leaven.  No  one  knew  him  inti 
mately,  and  his  friends  were  always  inferiors.  His  person 
was  almost  unknown  to  the  public,  and  thus  rumor  made 
its  legends.  This  invisible  sovereign  of  finance  was  like 
the  shadow  of  a  bird  of  prey,  for  his  victims  first  knew  him 
by  the  darkness  beneath  his  wings  as  he  settled  for  the 
final  swoop. 

In  Julian's  estimation  he  was  a  great  man,  much  more 
than  a  mere  business  instinct.  As  the  young  man  became 
better  acquainted  with  the  office  and  the  operations  on 
foot  therein,  and  became  able  to  properly  estimate  them 
by  the  laws  of  business,  he  waxed  in  respect  for  John  Gay. 
There  was  a  largeness  about  the  man  and  a  gigantic  stature 
about  his  schemes.  They  were  woven  about  a  continent, 
and  his  agents  were  sown  up  and  down  all  Christendom. 
He  evolved  from  his  brain  a  transcendental  geometry  of 
finance,  as  Napoleon  raised  war  to  incarnate  science  of 
offence.  Logic  was  here  applied  to  commerce,  and  the  law 
of  cause  animated  the  pulse  in  the  body  of  his  success.  In 
Minnesota  he  lightened  on  a  timber  tract,  in  Missouri  he 
wrecked  a  railroad,  on  Lake  Superior  he  throttled  the 
copper-mines,  in  Nebraska  he  grasped  two  counties  in  his 
hand,  in  New  England  he  operated  the  fall  of  breadstuffs, 
and  he  dictated  in  England  the  price  of  cotton.  His  eye 
was  upon  everything,  and  by  massing  of  capital  and  supreme 
nerve  he  broke  into  a  hoarded  wealth,  or  stunned  a  pros 
perous  industry,  or  shattered  an  opposing  syndicate,  as 
Marlborough  drove  over  the  French  at  Eamillies.  Surely 
he  was  great.  Every  quality  of  mind  which  pedestalled  on 
celebrity  such  men  as  John  Churchill  or  Augustus  Cassar, 
he  had  displayed,  and  over  magnitudes  as  great  as  theirs 


"150         THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

in  some  ways;  fora  hundred  millions  in  America  means 
the  power  of  a  great  captain  of  things,  as  they  of  men  and 
armies.  And  his  motives  were  not  the  Jew's,  but  rather 
the  gambler's.  He  played  for  the  game's  sake,  and  his 
passion  was  the  strain,  not  the  gold  that  rewarded  success. 

Was  the  man  conscious  of  his  stupendous  power?  Or 
did  he  but  play  with  it,  as  a  child  plays  with  a  cannon- 
shell  and  knows  not  the  pregnancy  of  his  toy?  Julian 
often  asked^  himself  which.  Perhaps  it  attends  on  all 
genius  not  to  recognize  the  potency  of  its  own  acts,  to 
march  over  Europe  and  think  it  a  picnic,  to  subvert  an 
empire  and  think  it  an  act  in  a  stage-drama,  to  promul 
gate  an  earth-shaking  book  and  smile  at  men's  credulity  of 
wonder.  Can  any  man,  however  great  and  ruthless,  be 
presented  with  the  full  responsibility  of  his  acts  and  not 
be  unnerved?  Have  not  many  changers  of  history  imag 
ined  they  were  only  playing  at  dominoes? 

The  millionaire  occupies  the  imagination  of  our  people, 
not  only  because  he  is  the  fortunate  possessor  of  what  a 
trading  civilization  conceives  to  be  the  best  good,  but  also 
because  he  is  picturesque.  The  world  has  never  seen  such 
gigantic  massings  of  wealth,  and  the  owner  cannot  spend  its 
income  for  himself.  After  baptizing  himself  in  indulgence, 
still  he  must  necessarily  constitute  himself  trustee  of  the 
larger  part  for  the  benefit  of  others.  There  is  a  mean  in 
wealth  at  which  a  possessor  can  most  selfishly  live  for  him 
self,  but  beyond  it  the  ratio  of  burdens  increases,  and  at  a 
point  the  possessor  actually  becomes  a  mere  public  servant 
to  run  manufactures  for  his  employees  and  railroads  for 
the  people.  It  is  the  American  solution  of  those  gen 
eral  social  functions  the  old  governments  assume  or  man 
age  themselves.  Thus  our  millionaires  are  sovereigns, 
despots,  in  a  way.  They  are  interesting,  and  not  envy  nor 
money-lust  alone  makes  us  admire  them.  We  have  the 
worship  for  them  Europe  gives  to  her  kings.  But  every 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          151 

admiration  involves  a  reflection  of  its  object  on  the  soul 
which  worships.  Thus  we,  who  have  substituted  the  mil 
lionaire  for  the  old  ideals  of  a  great  statesman  or  a  great 
genius,  have  taken  an  influence  from  those  royal  riches. 
Wealth  is  not  so  much  our  desire  as  our  ideal.  And  it  is 
this  veneration  for  capital  itself,  not  our  eagerness  after 
money,  nor  our  national  restlessness,  that  is  so  tragic,  so 
hopeless,  so  barren  for  the  future.  We  all  feel  it,  the  best 
of  us  are  shadowed  by  it,  this  universal  adoration  of  the 
millionaire.  That  wealth  is  so  huge,  so  enormous,  it  stag 
gers  our  comprehension,  and  we  view  it  much  as  we  do  the 
extent  of  our  country  and  the  perfection  of  our  liberty.  It 
is  a  canto  in  our  national  lyric  in  praise  of  bigness. 

And  the  admiration  and  awe  Julian  had  for  Mr.  Gay 
produced  its  effect.  The  youth  was  not  conscious  how 
great  was  the  gulf  between  this  esteem  for  the  operator  and 
that  spiritual  idealism  on  which  he  had  hitherto  been 
nourished.  To  be  open  to  all  impressions,  grand  and  pue 
rile;  to  be  docile  and  ductile;  to  see  the  sweetness  of  others 
and  to  hate  the  limitations  of  self-sufficiency;  to  endeavor 
to  understand  and  feel  all  natures  and  all  moods;  to  be  no 
fixed  and  frozen  uniformity,  solidly  casting  off  influences, 
as  the  turret  of  a  monitor  casts  off  bullets,  but  to  be  able 
to  think  with  each  period  of  history  and  to  slip  at  will  into 
the  feeling  and  thought  of  opposite  personalities — that  was 
the  maiden-passion  of  his  intellect,  the  ideal  of  the  poets 
and  the  seers.  But  this  latest  attitude  was  different.  To 
be  powerful  and  inflict  our  personalities  on  men,  to  cut 
and  not  to  be  cut,  to  be  a  hammer  of  bronze  and  pound 
events  to  a  shape  to  suit  us — that  was  the  type  for  which 
Gay  stood.  And  as  the  successful  millionaire  had  profited 
by  contrast  with  the  thinkers  of  Exmoor,  having  those 
apparent  qualities  which  the  young  love,  so  his  personality 
and  his  ambition  to  Julian's  eyes  seemed  stable  and  mas 
sive,  something  to  console  a  proud  man;  while,  on  the 


152          THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

other  hand,  the  illusive  and  difficult  purpose  of  his  college 
days  grew  unreal,  sentimental,  a  little  mawkish.  It  was 
Bonaparte  outtopping  Goethe,  fact  ahead  of  fiction,  deeds 
majestic  over  thought,  Fortinbras  with  blare  of  trumpets 
erect  and  gallant  beside  the  pitiful  Hamlet  dead. 

Then,  too,  his  ideals  had  another  assailant,  a  negative 
force,  as  his  admiration  for  Gay  and  able  men  was  the 
positive.  To  the  curiosity  of  the  new  which  occupied  his 
first  weeks,  succeeded  depression.  The  country  youths 
who  suffer  loneliness  and  despondency,  we  have  all  seen 
them  alone  on  the  streets  at  night,  with  the  hunger  in 
their  eyes  and  desperation  in  their  faces.  The  indifference 
of  a  great  city  can  be  properly  borne  only  by  one  who  is 
careless  of  self  or  concentrated  self.  But  for  the  young 
soul,  tender  of  life  and  its  fond  ideals,  who  has  not  yet 
stepped  over  the  threshold  of  absolute  egotism,  nor  yet 
learned  to  renounce,  thxe  face  of  an  unknown  crowd  is  like 
death. 

"To  carve  out  a  success."  At  home,  in  Exmoor,  the 
words  had  a  noble  ring.  They  meant  the  fairest  things, 
honor  and  truth  and  courage.  Here,  in  New  York,  they 
were  hollow  like  vain  clatter.  His  rooms  on  Thirty-eighth 
Street  offered  a  meagre  asylum,  and  the  business  office 
grew  daily  more  dolorous.  There  are  two  indifferences — 
that  of  nature,  that  of  men;  but  the  latter  comes  to  us 
first,  when  we  love  humanity,  and  the  other  remains  for 
middle  age  to  welcome  as  a  refuge  and  a  peace.  "  Success  " 
— stuff!  The  huge  machine,  named  Society,  ground  out 
relentlessly  and  its  iron  crunched  over  vibrant  nerves,  over 
goodness  and  over  genius,  as  over  commoner  metal.  Suc 
cess  was  impersonal,  unmoral,  absolutely  impartial,  and 
force,  sheer  force,  be  it  evil  or  noble,  or  contemptible,  or 
Pharisaical,  was  its  only  master. 

The  colossal  buildings,  the  miles  of  the  avenues,  cut 
straight  through  cliffs  of  brick  and  mortared  stone,  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          153 

crush  of  the  crowd  and  its  mad  stride,  the  millions  swarm 
ing  and  clustering  and  dissolving — before  the  multitudi 
nous  manifestations  of  sheer  material  existence,  in  the  face 
of  this  infinite  will  to  live,  this  resolve  to  survive — Julian 
cowed;  a  lethargy  sat  upon  his  buoyant  enthusiasm,  analo 
gous  to  that  powerless  feeling  of  the  biologist  before  the 
history  of  physical  Nature.  This  so  great  world,  this  over 
whelming  life,  whose  narrowness  had  not  yet  had  time  to 
come  to  him — the  young,  ardent,  reverent  spirit  bowed 
before  it,  struck  tame  with  humility. 

This  "  taking  the  conceit "  out  of  a  young  cub  is  done 
more  thoroughly  in  America  than  elsewhere,  because  in 
old  countries  birth  and  the  acknowledgment  given  to  in 
tellect  interpose  artificial  barriers,  behind  which  the  few 
can  protect  themselves,  while  in  America  the  disproportion 
between  man  and  society  is  greater,  something  like  what  it 
is  in  China,  and  the  very  vastness  of  the  State  keeps  down 
the  personality.  Verily  in  America  the  majority  rules, 
and  every  young  fellow  who  comes  up  to  the  barriers  of 
the  career  is  exposed  to  all  the  assaults,  the  sneer  of  the 
average  ideal  and  the  ridicule  of  the  dominant  mediocrity. 

While  thus  subdued,  Julian  hit  on  a  friend.  Russell 
P.  Andrus  was  a  partner  of  Gay's  in  many  operations.  He 
had  come  up  from  the  bottom  himself,  and  so,  perhaps, 
was  led  to  notice  the  young  fellow,  introduced  by  Gay,  and 
now  treading  the  wine-press  alone.  He  stopped  at  Julian's 
desk  one  morning  and  asked  how  his  "  young  friend  "  was 
getting  along. 

"  Fairly,"  answered  the  fledgling  in  a  wan  way. 

Andrus  saw  his  distress,  and  so  out  of  the  warmth  of  hia 
heart  sat  down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 

"  Let  me  give  you  a  few  points,  my  dear  boy/'  he  began 
in  his  bland,  sympathetic  manner.  "  Don't  get  discour 
aged;  you'll  get  along." 

"  I'm  not  discouraged,"  put  in  Julian. 


154          TBE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

/ 

"  Well,  you're  not,  that's  good;  a  young  fellow  like  you 
has  no  business  to  be  discouraged  or  downhearted.  IVe 
been  through  the  same  thing  myself.  It's  hard,  but  it 
makes  a  man.  It  made  me." 

"  You  mean  those  who  survive,  survive,"  interrupted 
Julian,  with  a  forlorn  laugh. 

"  I  mean,  young  man,  that  those  who  are  men  are  made 
more  of  men.  It's  good  for  'em — knocks  the  nonsense  out 
of  them.  If  you  are  a  man  with  a  man's  qualities,  strength 
and  gumption,  you're  all  right,"  continued  this  genial 
optimist,  whose  own  success  was  established.  "  I've  been 
through  it  all  and  it  did  me  good.  It  will  make  you,  too, 
my  young  friend.  You  ought  to  be  glad  you  have  no  for 
tune.  Your  need  is  your  future;  remember  that,  remem 
ber  that." 

Success  would  be  defined  by  Russell  P.  Andrus  as  resolu 
tion  to  follow  out  one's  best,  to  foster  one's  natural  instinct 
for  respectability  and  position.  Success  involved  no  limi 
tations,  was  coupled  with  no  degenerations  from  higher 
aspirations.  The  scroll  of  life  lay  out  plain,  and  as  one 
marked  out  a  short  route  from  New  York  to  Chicago,  so 
with  equal  facility  a  young  man  should  mark  down  a 
straight  road,  whose  ties  were  hard  work,  whose  rails  were 
ability,  whose  spikes  were  honest  determination,  from  im- 
pecuniousness  into  wealth  and  weight.  To  be  honorable, 
to  have  his  word  as  good  as  his  bond,  to  be  bowed  to  and 
sought  out,  to  possess  the  wherewithal  to  gratify  his  do 
mestic  tastes,  his  love  of  good  dinners,  of  fine  turnouts, 
to  dress  his  daughters  as  they  wished  and  to  have  his  sons 
behind  no  other  man's,  to  subscribe  his  part  to  charity  and 
to  look  distinguished  in  his  church-pew — such  was  his  con 
ception  of  life,  which  he  shared  with  the  majority  of  the  able 
in  America.  And  what  a  splendid  fellow  he  was! — able, 
good,  genial,  kindly,  a  basketful  of  homely,  comfortable, 
sincere,  virtues.  This  western  civilization  has  plenty  such 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          155 

as  he,  they  are  her  peculiar  fruit;  she  is  planned  and 
upholstered  for  them  arid  she  loves  them.  Admirable  men; 
any  country  with  such  men  is  stable.  May  we  preserve 
the  species !  Very  good!  But  it's  hard  on  the  other  fellows, 
the  Julians. 

"Now,  my  dear  fellow,"  urged  Andrus,  laying  his  hand 
in  good-fellowship  on  Julian's  coat-sleeve,  "  you  must  not 
estimate  this  world  too  hugely.  Just  you  grasp  it  boldly 
and  get  your  grip  right  and  you  can  wrestle  a  fall  with  it 
easily  enough.  It  don't  require  such  a  tremendous  head; 
I've  seen  lots  of  big-headed  man  fall  down.  You  be  at 
tentive  and  industrious,  that's  the  most.  Now  Gay,  in 
there,  passes  for  a  man  of  miraculous  intelligence.  Of 
course  he  is  a  brainy  man,  but  between  you  and  me,  and 
for  your  encouragement,  it's  the  ordinary  qualities  of  night 
and  day  at  it,  persistence,  patience,  detail,  attention,  that 
makes  him.  This  world  is  none  too  great,  boy,  and  so 
don't  be  afraid." 

Julian,  being  a  strong  young  fellow  with  plenty  of  spring, 
got  speedily  hoisted  out  of  the  slough  of  despond  in  which 
his  sense  of  insignificance  had  immersed  him.  He  found 
the  world  opening  up,  the  office  untangling  and  becoming 
intelligible.  His  daily  orbit  included  many  fixed  stations, 
and  in  a  short  time  he  looked  for  certain  men  and  things 
as  known  out  of  all  that  horse  and  human  route  of  Broad 
way  and  the  business  peninsula. 

Mancutt  showed  him  the  town,  or  some  of  it.  He  was 
enjoying  life  in  a  way.  The  longer  he  lived  in  New  York 
the  more  complete  the  objective  existence  became,  the 
superficial  rising  and  drowning  thought  and  meditation. 
Business,  dinners,  club  talks,  drives,  chats  with  women 
about  inconsequentials,  elbowed  the  inner  man  out  of 
doors.  At  the  end  of  a  year,  the  self-communing  student 
was  half  an  animal  of  the  surface.  Even  his  walks  on  the 
streets  were  absorbed  in  observation  of  the  life  jostling 


156          THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

against  him;  thus  his  whole  speculation,  and  a  mind  like 
his  speculates  always,  was  on  the  common  forms  of  exist 
ence,  which  throng  the  city,  the  beggar,  the  proud  man, 
the  prostitute,  the  rich  woman.  He  developed,  as  it  were, 
a  "  Zolaistic  "  knowledge,  and  that  science  of  the  lower 
forms  evicted  the  lofty  abstractions  of  youth.  The  in 
fluence  of  New  York  in  this  way  is  inconceivable;  that  dry 
atmosphere  of  practicality  and  naturalism  furnace-heats  the 
soul,  sucks  up  her  juices,  desiccates  the  blood,  and  leaves  a 
heap  of  powder  for  a  beating  heart. 

With  the  dust  rising  from  the  streets  an  immaterial  dry- 
ness  ascends;  the  used  air  of  the  city  contains  a  subtle 
atmosphere  which  the  soul  breathes  and  stiffens  in,  as  does 
flesh  soaked  in  alcohol.  There  are  emanations  of  spirit  as 
of  matter,  and  as  the  gases  of  the  gutters  go  up  to  the 
nostrils  of  the  passer-by,  so  the  ether  that  rises  from  a 
crowd  bathes  the  bystanders.  In  the  New  Babylon  where 
men  clash  together  like  the  swords  of  duellists,  and  where 
schemes  break  lances  in  the  lists  of  competition,  an  elec 
tricity  is  generated  which  permeates  the  inhabitants  and 
drives  them  to  a  frantic  pace.  There  surges  up  from  those 
narrow  high-walled  streets,  where  a  continent's  commerce 
is  planned  and  manoeuvred,  a  wave  of  calculation,  of  daring, 
of  cool  selfishness  and  utter  materialism. 

The  spectacular  theatre  so  adorned  and  so  tasteless  for 
the  most  part;  the  splendid  gleam  of  restaurants  and  cafes, 
blazing  at  night,  where  one  imagines  New  York  is  but  a 
stomach;  the  fashionable  streets  of  impossible  architecture; 
the  materialism  of  the  women,  who  marry  for  wealth  as  the 
men  do  in  Europe — these  pander  to  the  sense-life  and  excite 
to  ostentation  and  flare:  and  in  a  city,  too,  where  intellect 
is  neglected  or  misunderstood,  where  art  and  music  is  im 
ported  and  made  a  false  fad,  where  there  are  no  virile  in 
fluences  to  make  towards  beauty  or  truth  for  their  own 
sake,  there  necessarily  results  a  great  conspiracy  of  forces 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          157 

against  the  soul,  and  that  money  becomes  the  standard 
weight  and  the  only  goal  for  the  runners  is  the  inevitable 
decree. 

By  the  end  of  the  year  Julian  was  deep  in  schemes  with 
Mancutt,  and  the  two  talked  late  into  the  night  about  how 
to  advance  their  fortunes.  Then,  too,  the  awe  Julian  had 
conceived  of  Gay  had  become  transformed  into  a  desire  to 
imitate  him.  To  be  able — magical  words,  that  startle  the 
blood.  To  do  and  to  dare  project  ourselves  into  effort,  to 
mould  some  portion  of  void  into  form  and  utility.  We 
Americans  have  the  English  inheritance  and  our  fathers' 
education  of  toil,  so  that  our  genius  is  all  practical,  and  it 
lies  in  every  man  of  us.  Words  are  such  vapid  gaseous 
globules;  and  as  for  thought,  it  never  walked.  Theory  will 
never  raise  us  a  roof  between  our  heads  and  the  weather, 
nor  will  it  drain  our  sewage  or  make  us  comfortable.  As 
Julian  walked  the  streets  that  year  and  mingled  with  men, 
his  goal  of  life  gradually  swung  around  and  the  East  stood 
in  the  place  of  West.  He  derived  a  satisfaction  from  doing 
a  piece  of  business  deftly,  greatly  in  contrast  to  the  carping 
discontent  he  used  to  suck  out  from  a  paper  in  meta 
physics  or  a  speculation  in  history.  To  write  a  business 
letter  or  negotiate  a  sale  was  to  despatch  a  neat  clean-cut 
work — to  write  an  essay  was  to  despair  over  the  abyss  be 
tween  the  ideal  and  the  accomplishment.  What  did  lite 
rary  criticism  amount  to,  anyway  ?  The  Lord  and  the 
vain  only  knew.  That  "  Blougram's  Apology  "  of  Brown 
ing's  presented  the  matter  rightly  ;  the  man  of  power  and 
sane  ability  over  against  "Gigadibs,  the  literary  man." 
But  to  this  negative,  this  scorn  of  borrowed  plumes,  of 
parasitism,  came  a  positive  judgment.  To  ceaselessly  attain 
and  to  grow  in  power  with  the  years,  to  grapple  problems 
and  to  break  them,  to  grasp  money,  men,  circumstances, 
and  wield  them ;  to  be  a  force  and  hurl  one's  self  impact 
upon  facts  and  change  them — how  massive  such  a  success 


158          THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

besides  any  other,  some  shifting  puny  reputation  of  letters 
or  science,  which  but  exposed  the  possessor  to  controversy 
and  criticism  !  At  least,  men  never  insulted  Gay,  never 
doubted  his  power,  never  belittled  his  career ;  even  the 
literary  fellows  cajoled  him,  and  the  world  admired  him. 
He  was  the  man  of  the  age,  and  all  other  genius  ran  counter 
to  its  drift.  Intellect — men  called  it  folly  or  left  it 
to  grow  moss  in  a  corner!  Genius — men  said  "another 
crank,"  and  went  to  the  memorial  services  after  its  de 
cease  !  But  Gay — a  cannon  opening  on  a  mob,  a  visible 
force  that  hammered  an  acknowledgment  into  men's 
heads. 

The  Monday  night  after  the  Sunday  of  the  lunch  at  the 
Gay  house,  Mancutt  sat  in  his  rooms  with  Julian,  each 
lounging  sumptuously  in  great  chairs,  smoking  before  the 
open  fire.  They  were  ending  a  long  talk.  The  secretary 
had  been  telling  a  good  deal  about  himself,  his  situation 
and  its  prospects.  Even  this  man's  life  had  its  pathos,  and 
Julian  divined  it  in  a  half  manner.  The  straggle  to  hold 
his  head  above  water  had  been  a  bold  fight.  Julian  saw, 
as  it  were,  the  long  years  of  persistent  effort,  the  lonely 
days  of  labor  and  discouragement,  in  which  the  man  had 
walked.  With  all  his  barbarism  and  his  concealed  hard 
ness,  he  too  had  need  of  compassion.  After  all,  the  quan 
tity  of  sorrow  is  measured  out  in  equal  quarts  to  every  man, 
it  only  differs  in  quality  and  sort. 

They  had  spoken  of  this  man  and  that,  known  in  the 
world.  Mancutt  had  thrown  round  each  name  that  unap- 
preciable  air  of  detraction,  stabbing  each  nobility  under 
the  doublet.  The  two  stripped  down  every  reverence  and 
vied  with  each  other  in  explaining  every  seeming  eminence 
on  low  grounds.  That  politician  of  to-day's  fame  had  won 
by  shrewd  unscrupulousness;  that  successful  railroad  presi 
dent  was  in  reality  a  commonplace  man  of  luck  and  genial 
tact,  but  no  such  genius  and  wit  as  he  was  given  credit  for. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          159 

Love,  it  was  a  bore,  and  women  were  fools  and  of  facile 
consistency.  As  to  the  church  cant — fah! 

They  were  silent  some  minutes,  on  Mancutt's  face  a 
shrewd  smile,  in  Julian's  heart  the  dull  ache  of  disenchant 
ment.  The  secretary  shifted  his  position,  so  that  he  could 
see  Julian.  He  began : 

"My  philosophy  is  just  this,  after  all's  said  and  done: 
money  is  the  only  good,  the  foundation  of  everything  else, 
and  I'm  after  it,  neck  or  nothing.  A  man  can  get  it  if 
he's  only  determined.  The  ornamentals  are  nice  things, 
perhaps  ;  yet  at  bottom  what  difference  does  people's 
opinion  make  to  me,  anyway?  They  always  accept  the 
moneyed  man  finally;  shekels  count.  And  the  question  is, 
how  am  I  satisfied  with  myself,  do  I  enjoy  myself?  Sup 
pose  I  am  an  ass  ;  if  I  have  a  good  time  out  of  life,  I'll 
never  know  it." 

Both  laughed.  Americans  so  enjoy  the  humor  of  a  thing, 
for,  at  bottom,  they  understand  that  the  other  does  not  tell 
all  he  believes. 

"Now,  I  regard  myself  as  fitted  to  enjoy  myself.  No 
man  has  a  better  digestion  for  good  dinners  and  a  better 
constitution  to  stand  the  racket.  I've  worked  for  ten 
years  and  have  just  got  a  start;  in  my  humble  opinion  it's 
time  I  was  l  razzle-dazzling'  it.  The  short-cut  is  to  marry 
it  rich,  and  I  intend  so  much.  Love's  another  one  of  those 
ornamentals,  all  well  enough  when  you  can  afford  it,  but  it 
don't  contain  the  solid  things.  Religious  sacrament  is 
played  out.  Marriage  is  a  contract,  and  I'm  up  for  the  first 
woman  who'll  exchange  place  and  shekels  for  my  illustrious 
self." 

Julian  laughed  again  at  the  secretary's  ridiculous  gestures. 

"  What  else  can  a  man  do  in  this  country  but  go  in  for 
money  ?"  Julian  burst  out. 

"  He  might  preach,"  suggested  Mancutt. 

"  Politics  are  barred.     There's  no  question  up  worthy  an 


160          THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

intellect's  attention.  People  won't  listen  to  good  literature, 
and  I  can't  see  a  sacrifice  or  any  other  hifalutin  hysteric 
that  wouldn't  be  ridiculous.  What's  a  man  to  do  ?" 

"  Go  in  for  himself  and  make  coin.  The  only  text  I  know 
is, '  To  him  who  hath,  it  shall  be  given,  and  to  him  who 
hath  not,  it  shall  be  taken  away  even  that  which  he  hath,' " 
leered  Mancutt. 

"But  it's  all  so  damned  commonplace,"  growled  the 
other. 

"  What,  commonplace  ?  Wrhat  more  do  you  want  ?  The 
earth  and  the  fulness  thereof  ?  An  heiress  interested  in 
you,  Gay  to  back  you,  the  fun  of  the  fight  and  a  hundred 
horse-races  and  theatre-parties  in  prospect!  You're  the 
damnedest  ideal  fool  I  ever  met." 

"You're  right;  it's  all  disgusting,  and  the  only  thing  is 
money.  I  think  I'm  in  love  with  Miss  Vivian,"  replied 
Julian. 

Their  eyes  met  and  they  laughed  outright.  The  two 
men  went  on,  turning  the  comic  light  on  everything,  and 
the  bitter  cynicism  of  the  younger  man  equalled  the  genial 
cynicism  of  the  other. 

Did  Julian  believe  what  he  said  ?  The  outer  man,  which 
handled  the  world,  no  doubt  did.  But  within,  covered 
over  with  sense-desires,  worldly  ambitions  and  instinct  for 
comfort,  existed  the  idealist  and  dreamer,  who  believed  in 
the  tender  and  gentle  things,  who  shivered  at  the  tremu 
lous  white  throat  of  a  girl,  who  stored  up  for  contempla 
tion  images  of  vulgar  happiness,  of  pure  affection,  of  sim 
plicity  and  integrity.  At  this  desecration  of  the  reverences 
of  life  and  the  flowers  of  human  nature,  the  inner  man 
sickened.  Yet  it  was  aii  irritation  to  feel  like  the  stupid 
people.  One  could  not  take  arms  like  any  Methodist  par 
son,  or  country  deacon,  or  middle-class  animal,  against  the 
smart  proverbs  of  the  worldling. 

Pierce  the  American  deep  enough  and  nine  times  out 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          161 

of  ten  you  will  strike  a  well  of  human  candor  and  sweet 
ness  of  soul. 

So  the  year  went  over  the  young  man's  head. 

Business  and  ambition,  self  and  money  !  New  York  is 
the  furnace  into  which  America  throws  her  sensitive  and 
potential  spirits,  to  bake  them  into  bricks  to  line  her 
chimney  of  industry,  or  else  to  harden  them  into  earthen 
pots  to  hold  mere  gold. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A   MONET-PKINCESS. 

JULIAN"  was  seen  on  the  Avenue,  in  the  Park,  driven  by 
Miss  Gay.  His  acquaintance  among  the  few  young  men 
of  pretension  was  much  influenced  by  the  event,  and  the 
son  of  the  Hegel  of  Exmoor  was  proud  of  his  apparent 
conquest.  His  intimacy  with  the  heiress  was  taken  for 
granted  down-town,  and  he  became  the  recipient  of  much 
consideration — bows  prefixed  to  greetings,  unexpected  in 
vitations  to  lunch,  and  cordial  hand-shakes  on  the  street. 

These  results  all  came  about  in  the  following  way. 

Thursday,  after  the  momentous  Sunday  of  the  lunch,  a 
note  came  to  him  at  the  office.  It  ran : 

"  MY  DEAR  ME.  CLYDE  : 

"  Will  you  pardon  my  hurry  after  you,  and  come  up  at 
four  o'clock  ?  I  wish  to  take  you  driving  if  you  will  consent. 
I  have  a  beautiful  new  black  horse  with  a  white  nose,  as 
saucy  as  he  can  be,  and  you  will  have  the  honor  of  first 


162          THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

ride.     So  think  yourself  an  honored  man,  and  don't  disap 
point  me. 

"  Yours  cordially, 

^VIVIAN  GAY." 

The  blood  flushed  his  cheeks  in  elation.  Was  it  true,  as 
Mancutt  said,  he  had  made  a  "  crush  "  ?  The  great  John 
Gay's  daughter,  who  figured  in  society  journals  and  was  one 
of  the  richest  heiresses  in  New  York — that  she  should  suc 
cumb  to  him,  after  no  campaign  at  all,  thrilled  the  nerves 
of  his  vanity. 

They  thumped  over  the  granite  of  Fifth  Avenue,  her 
little  hands  firm  on  the  reins  and  the  short  arms  filled  with 
muscles  that  curbed  the  young  horse. 

Julian  posed  for  the  street  and  the  impassive  footman 
behind.  Rich  women  stared  at  him  curiously  as  they  passed 
in  their  carriages,  and  he  bowed  with  Vivian  to  distinguished- 
looking  men  in  tall  hats.  Vivian  was  proud  of  her  com 
panion's  natural  air  of  hauteur,  while  his  handsome  face 
at  the  same  time  stirred  the  woman  in  her.  And,  then, 
such  delicate  little  compliments  on  her  driving  and  other 
things,  and  such  naive  admirations  he  expressed!  The 
lack  of  self-assertion  in  Julian,  which  permitted  him  to 
wonder  at  this  brilliant  creature  and  to  make  bows  to  all 
the  little  superiorities  she  chose  to  assume,  worked  to  his 
advantage.  Vivian  was  a  true  Gay,  in  that  she  loved  her 
dominion  in  feminine  ways,  as  her  father  in  larger  things. 
So  the  implied  flattery  of  Julian's  boyish  awe  enchanted 
the  little  marshal  and  reinforced  his  physical  attraction. 
She  was  exceedingly  vivacious,  and  as  lovely  as  she  had 
ever  been. 

The  talk  of  two  young  and  beautiful  people — how  repeat 
it  ?  It  is  trash  unless  you  are  one  of  them  and  meet  the 
tilt  of  the  lips  and  flame  of  the  eyes  that  pack  eloquence 
into  silly  speeches.  Julian  uttered  commonplaces  and 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  163 

looted  at  her  little,  gloved  hands  or  into  her  glowing  face 
with  eyes  that  carried  gratification  to  the  foolish  heart,  that 
her  feminine  vanities,  her  position,  her  self  and  her  flesh 
were  fine  things  to  this  young  and  handsome  fellow. 

They  drove  in  the  line  of  ostentation  that  files  through 
the  Park  every  day.  The  lust  of  life  was  strong  in  him, 
and  he  was  swept  off  his  feet  by  the  seductions  of  riches 
and  vanity  and  feminine  beauty. 

He  looked  everything  with  his  Italian  eyes,  and  she  did 
not  grow  angry.  When  she  gave  him  her  hand  to  alight, 
she  said,  "  Come  this  evening.  I  have  an  invitation 
out ;  but  I  shall  be  sick,  and  you  and  I  will  be  alone.  Can 
you  grant  me  so  much  ?"  She  looked  very  arch,  and  Julian 
could  only  mutter  an  effusive  acceptation  and  move  away. 

Eight  o'clock  that  evening  found  Clyde  on  the  Avenue. 
He  was  dressed  to  perfection,  and  had  spent  the  last  quar 
ter  of  an  hour  in  his  rooms  arranging  the  part  of  his  hair, 
and  the  hang  of  it  over  his  forehead.  His  heart  pumped 
excitement,  as  he  came  under  the  huge  portal.  This  was  a 
crisis  !  Was  he  to  increase  his  hold  upon  Miss  Gay ;  or,  by 
one  of  those  incongruities  of  action  that  suddenly  provoke 
disgust  in  a  woman  awakening  into  love,  was  he  to  lose  all 
at  a  touch  ?  Station,  wealth,  power,  all  in  a  dazzling  mir 
age  to  be  solidified  and  made  his,  or  to  dissolve  away  be 
fore  his  thirsting  eyes,  as  the  whim  of  a  small,  egotistical 
girl ! — he  could  have  choked  her  at  the  moment.  He  was 
calculating,  like  a  worldling;  and  when  the  servant  admit 
ted  him,  he  entered  her  home  with  the  sinister  purpose, 
cold  and  brutal,  of  subduing  her  and  her  riches.  And  to 
this  problem  of  love  and  money,  of  passion  and  the  world's 
consideration,  he  concentrated  the  powers  of  no  mean  mind. 
He  entered  the  room  where  she  sat,  pretending  to  muse 
before  the  blazing  fire,  with  ambition  in  his  blood  and 
geometry  the  dictator  in  the  citadal  of  his  brain. 

The  lights  were  low  in  the  chandelier,  and  the  leaping 


164  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

flames  cast  momentary  glares  over  the  luxury  of  the  apart 
ment — a  half-light  here  upon  silken  drapings,  a  sudden 
light  that  freed  the  lustre  of  the  gold-hued  furniture  from 
the  shadow,  or  revealed  for  an  instant,  as  through  a 
veil  rent  midways,  the  marble  limbs  of  the  old-world  sirens. 

"  This  is  my  own  particular  property,  this  room — my 
very  own  boudoir.  Do  you  not  think  it  pretty  ?"  So  the 
charming  thing  greeted  him,  challenging  his  admiration. 
He  saw  her,  the  manufactured  product  of  luxury,  glorious 
ly  backed  by  the  golden  tints  of  the  splendid  upholstery, 
and  he  answered  as  if  half  smothered  by  the  novel  wealth 
of  the  apartment.  She  was  charmed  that  her  power  seemed 
so  great,  even  while  he  stumbled  into  a  chair,  feeling  that 
he  was  a  fool  and  had  missed  his  stroke.  Every  woman  has 
a  touch  of  the  Egyptian,  and  to  dazzle  a  strong  man  into 
stupidity  is  the  frankincense  of  intoxication  to  their 
coward  souls.  Clyde  in  his  confusion  had  committed  a 
master-stroke.  Vivian  conceived  a  great  pity  for  this  boy- 
admirer  whom  her  resplendence  crushed.  She  was  inclined 
to  push  her  fingers  through  his  fine  hair  and  see  if  it  was 
really  floss  of  ruddy  gold.  She  was  swept  unexpectedly 
out  on  the  wind  of  a  longing  to  kiss  the  full  lids  of  dark 
eyes  and  to  possess  herself  of  him,  as  she  would  of  a  child. 
Poor  boy  !  Well,  she  would  be  good  to  him  ;  she  would 
take  him  into  society  under  her  patronage  and  make  him 
have  a  nice  time.  It  was  such  a  pity  he  must  slave  for  his 
living  ! — so  handsome  was  he  with  his  Italian  complexion, 
his  Titian  hair  and  the  girl-refinement  of  his  face. 

He  got  up  to  take  off  his  overcoat,  which  he  had  forgot 
ten  in  his  nervousness  and  which  was  now  too  warm.  She 
proffered  her  services  and  made  him  lay  it  on  the  piano. 
His  height  surprised  her,  when  she  stood  close  to  him. 
After  all,  he  had  a  manly  figure  and  he  looked  so  strong  ! 
They  went  back  to  their  chairs  before  the  fire,  each  too  con 
scious  of  the  other.  They  talked  of  their  ride;  it  afforded 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  165 

them  a  past  together,  and  they  used  it,  as  if  it  had  been  ten 
years  of  intimacy.  They  had  passed  the  first  period,  that 
of  measurement,  and  had  come  to  the  second,  that  of  con 
fidence. 

Gradually  they  rid  themselves  of  embarrassment  and 
talked  "I"  and  "you;"  making  piecemeal  confessions 
of  tastes  and  hopes,  and  even  the  mutual  charms  of  each  to 
the  other. 

The  fire  played,  crawling  up  the  black  coal-battlements 
and  issuing  out  of  red-glowing  abysses  in  tongues  that  shot 
green  and  blue  and  crimson  and  orange.  The  subtle 
magnetism  of  flesh  bound  them  in  single  coil;  the  flush 
deepened  beneath  Clyde's  olive  skin,  and  the  undisciplined 
girl  looked  at  him  and  secretly  pictured  out  the  rapture  of 
a  touch. 

This  rich  girl,  motherless  and  accustomed  to  every  grati 
fication,  had  precociously  anticipated  in  imagination  the 
passions  of  womanhood.  That  is  one  of  the  ways  we  pay  for 
emancipating  the  American  young  lady. 

Julian  had  regained  his  control;  and  all  the  forces  of  his 
speech  and  of  his  beauty  were  swept  in  grand,  effective 
charges  that  melted  away  the  squares  of  her  resistance,  and 
were  directed  by  cool  reason  even  in  the  midst  of  desire. 
For  he  understood  that  this  woman  was  to  be  won  by 
no  high-stepping  heroics  nor  rettunciating  soul-gushes.  He 
knew  that  to  her  he  was  simply  the  physical.  And  phy 
sically  he  supplemented  her  ;  he  had  the  opposite  traits. 
Everything  combined,  both  blood  and  stature  and  tints, 
backed  her  compassion  and  her  complaisance  for  him. 
The  electric  currents  were  turned  on  and  there  needed  but 
one  swift  conjunction  to  flash  combustion  out.  The  strain 
was  tense.  Vivian  broke  it  with  a  deep  inward  drawing  of 
the  breath.  "I  want  to  poke  that  fire/'  she  said. 

The  black  iron  sunk  into  the  heart  of  a  red  fissure 
in  a  huge  coal.  The  wedge  broke  the  lump  and  a  confla- 


366  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

gration  issued  and  enveloped  the  dark  mass.  "  Here,  let  me 
help  !'"  cried  Julian,  starting  from  his  chair. 

"  No,  no.  I  want  to  do  it,  you  shaVt,"  and  one  plump 
arm  waved  him  off. 

Inspired  by  the  divine  boldness  of  youth,  Julian  caught 
her  outstretched  hand,  and  flinging  his  other  arm 
around  her  shoulders,  he  seized  the  poker;  clasping  his 
man's  hand  over  the  little  fingers  clinging  round  the 
bar.  A  shock  wrenched  their  nerves;  the  girl  shuddered, 
as  if  in  fright,  and  dropped  a  pathetic  "  Oh  !"  prolonged  and 
even  sad.  The  blonde  face  turned  up  to  his,  overhang 
ing.  A  pitiful  little  moue  was  couched  on  the  scarlet  lips  ; 
a  look  in  the  blue  eyes  lent  a  child's  weakness  and  appeal 
to  the  small  features  and  the  dimpled  cheek. 

The  poker  fell  with  a  bang  on  the  floor  ! 

Was  this  love  ?  Julian  was  not  deceived.  He  made  no 
extravagant  speeches;  he  did  not  say  he  adored  her,  nor 
did  he  suggest  marriage.  He  knew  she  would  have  laughed 
at  such  proposals.  This  was  but  the  prologue  to  the  piece; 
or,  at  best,  but  the  first  act  of  the  drama.  It  established 
a  hold.  He  had  got  standing-room.  But  such  manifesta 
tions  are  not  usually  the  finale  in  America,  they  are  only 
the  salute  with  which  we  open  the  campaign  against  the 
independent  young  lady. 

When  she  let  him  go  at  twelve,  she  guided  him  along  the 
darkened  hall  herself,  and  opened  the  ponderous  door  for 
him  to  slip  through  the  crack.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  go, 
she  put  her  two  arms  about  his  neck  and  drew  down  his 
face  and  kissed  him  over  with  her  perfumed  breath,  as  if  he 
were  really  her  lover.  It  takes  so  little  to  deceive  a  man  ! 

He  conceived  a  tenderness  for  the  little  thing,  and  he 
mentally  styled  this  pinch  of  egoism  "poor  little  girl." 

As  he  looked  into  her  doll-face,  he  vowed  he  would  make 
up  by  devotion  what  he  had  gained  from  her  by  mathe 
matics. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  167 

The  Avenue  was  less  sinister  to  him  that  night.  He 
defied  the  lordly  piles  and  all  their  wealth.  He  was  their 
equal,  the  favorite  of  one  of  their  princesses.  He  almost 
persuaded  himself  he  loved  Vivian;  for  the  fumes  of  vanity 
are  colored  like  love's,  and  are  more  heady,  to  boot. 

That  was  the  Tuesday  night  of  this  eventful  week:  Wed 
nesday  was  ordinary;  Thursday  evening  came,  the  night  of 
Mrs.  Van  Voosters  grand  ball,  the  opening  event  of  the  sea 
son,  the  first  profound  salaam  of  society  to  the  gayety  of  the 
winter. 

Clyde  hove  up  underneath  the  great  house  of  the  Van 
Voosters  with  far  greater  esprit  than  on  any  previous  hail 
of  his  with  the  magnates  of  wealth.  All  that  fine  scorn  of 
his  for  mere  money  had  wilted  down,  like  a  tallow  candle, 
in  the  fierce  heat  of  New  York  life,  and  his  comparative 
poverty  had  seemed  a  shameful  thing.  But  to-night  he 
faced  house  and  blazing  lights  and  footmen,  and  elegantly 
attired  worldlings  with  their  sneer-veneer,  and  literary 
dowagers  who  patronized  him  as  the  son  of  an  impecunious 
New  England  celebrity.  He  advanced  into  their  midst 
with  confidence,  and  dared  the  splendor  and  ostentation 
of  it  all.  For  was  not  he  preferred  of  Vivian  Gay  ?  And  he 
caught  the  glint  of  her  glance  on  him  as  he  entered  to 
greet  the  hostess,  and  he  saw  that  slight  beckon  of  her  fan. 
So  Clyde  stood  up  straight  to  Mrs.  Van  Vooster  and  the 
two  blonde  and  thin-skinned  Misses  Van  Vooster.  He 
minded  not  their  perceptible  condescension;  but  he  imaged 
to  himself  the  day  when  the  husband  of  Vivian  Gay  should 
bow  with  hauteur  to  his  meek  guests,  the  pink  pigeons  of 
Van  Vooster,  that  shrewd  and  stupid  financier. 

Miss  Eleanor  Van  Vooster  detained  him  a  moment. 

"Have  you  read  Obermann,  Mr.  Clyde?  Ah!  I  can  see 
you  have.  You  New  Englanders  so  precede  us  in  artistic 
matters  that  we  must  always  seem  to  you  sadly  ignorant. 
But  Obermann  ! — mamma  and  I  think  it  delightful.  It  is 


168  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

so  elegant  and  cultured,  you  know.  It  just  paints  my 
inner  feelings  ;  and  it  is  such  a  boon  to  have  one's  secret 
sorrows  relieved  by  utterance." 

She  was  a  made  figure  of  silk,  lace,  jewels,  wire  and 
cotton.  Julian  looked  at  her,  at  a  loss  where  in  that  bony 
fabric  to  find  a  soul  that  cried  for  utterance.  He  surveyed 
the  mother  and  wondered  if  these  culture-throes  were  not 
the  yearning  of  a  beer-keg  for  relief  at  the  bung-hole. 
"  No,"  he  answered  hotly,  "  I  think  Senancour  a  pretty 
tall  fool.  It's  simply  that  that  culture-carpenter  over  there 
in  England,  Matthew  Arnold,  has  set  the  fashion,  nailed  up 
the  golden  calf,  and  we  of  the  '  cult/  of  course,  m  ust  follow 
suit." 

He  preferred  to  disown  his  pearls  rather  than  to  nose 
them  with  swine. 

Miss  Eleanor  Van  Vooster  grew  red,  and  then  haughty  ; 
and  drew  back  to  dismiss  him  with  the  frozen  bow  of  the 
plutocrat,  who  understands  neither  the  "  noblesse  oblige," 
nor  possesses  the  born  aristocrat's  indifference  to  an  in 
ferior's  insult. 

Clyde  looked  down  the  drawing-rooms,  where  the  most 
fashionable  women,  the  greatest  heiresses  and  the  oldest 
names  of  the  New  Babylon  were  reared  against  the  walls, 
or  scattered  here  and  there  in  groups.  That  unconscious 
antagonism  which  lay  between  hirn  and  this  world,  which 
but  suffered  him  in  obedience  to  a  literary  affectation  and 
because  of  his  father's  little  notoriety,  inspired  in  him  the 
strength  to  take  it  by  the  throat  and  shake  it  in  pure  de 
spite.  He  strode  about  very  magnificently. 

He  was  alone,  leaning  against  a  door-post,  scanning  the 
crowd.  He  had  avoided  Vivian ;  he  felt  it  best  policy  not  to 
press  too  hard.  A  touch  on  his  arm  and  a  jerk  at  his  coat- 
tail  from  behind !  He  turned  about  to  Vivian.  Her  small 
face  was  puckered,  as  if  she  were  about  to  cry. 

"Are  you  not  to  dance  with  me?"     The  shining  eyes 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  169 

were  so  child-like.  "You  have  been  devoting  yourself  all 
the  while  to  Miss  Babel — bad  boy!" 

Julian  protested. 

"See  my  card,"  she  continued;  "this  is  the  sixth 
dance,  and  the  fourth,  the  seventh  and  the  ninth  I  have 
kept  for  yon.  Why  did  you  not  come  and  take  them  ?" 

"  But  you  have  so  many  other  men,"  and  he  named 
four  of  the  richest  young  bachelors  of  New  York,  one  the 
son  of  a  great  Senator. 

"  Pooh  !  do  you  suppose  I  like  them  ?  They  are  not  hand 
some,  nor  so  awfully  rich.  I  could  buy  them  out,  so  I  am 
not  setting  my  nets  for  them,  like  the  other  girls.  There 
is  the  music;  come  with  me,  Sir  Backward."  As  they 
danced,  she  told  him  her  father  was  up  in  Exmoor  and  that 
she  was  empress  at  home.  "  You  shall  come  to-morrow," 
she  said. 

Julian  pranced  the  dance  with  her.  Somehow,  he  won 
dered  at  her  vivacity  and  her  bold  front  to  him  after  that 
evening.  Was  it  a  little  brazen?  He  thought  of  that 
Puritan  girl  and  her  cold  innocence  up  there  in  the  hills 
of  Exmoor. 

"  Come  with  me.  I  know  a  place  behind  a  screen  that 
no  one  would  guess  at.  I  am  tired  of  dancing;  aren't 
you  ?"  she  commanded,  when  the  notes  of  the  waltz  had 
ceased. 

"But  what  will  you  do  with  your  other  partners,  the 
names  written  there?"  he  asked,  pointing  at  her  card. 

"I'll  just  be  out  of  the  way  and  they  won't  find  me," 
she  said  saucily,  hanging  a  little  more  clingingly  to  her 
captive's  arm. 

Vivian  steered  their  course  through  several  rooms, 
until  they  reached  one  all  empty.  The  chatter  of  the 
crowd  came  to  them  like  bundles  of  small  fire-crackers 
set  off  together.  She  stooped  beneath  a  tall  palm,  and  pass 
ing  through  the  narrow  space  between  its  pot  and  the  wall, 


170  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

disappeared.  Julian  plunged  after  her.  They  were  be 
hind  :i  great  screen  set  to  hide  the  fireplace.  One  seat 
was  visible,  a  box  that  had  contained  flowers.  Julian 
threw  a  rug  over  it,  and  the  girl  sut  down  on  the  perch. 
With  the  conscious  grace  of  a  lover  the  young  fellow  threw 
himself  at  her  feet,  planting  his  chin  in  his  palm,  his  elbow 
set  on  the  mat  very  close  to  her  feet. 

"  Isn't  it  lovely  ?  Don't  you  think  so  ?  I  discovered  this 
all  by  myself.  I  was  looking  around  for  some  nice  corner 
to  which  you  were  to  carry  me  off,  and  Spriggs,  Eleanor's 
little  dog,  pushed  his  curls  right  out  at  me,  there,  at  the 
fern.  So  I  just  put  my  own  head  in  and  this  is  what  I 
found."  So  she  warbled  on  in  her  candid  way,  appropriat 
ing  the  young  fellow  completely,  as  she  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  appropriate  anything  that  pleased  her,  a  diamond 
in  a  jeweller's  window,  a  box  of  candy  when  she  had  the 
appetite,  her  Jeannette  whom  she  raised  from  chamber 
maid,  a  caress  from  any  handsome  youth. 

"  What  made  you  like  me,  Julian  ?"  she  asked.  Julian 
laughed  and  told  her  it  was  much  more  to  the  point  to  ask 
why  she  liked  him, — she,  who  could  have  any  man  in  New 
York,  why  did  she  choose  to  honor  him,  a  mere  youth  to 
fortune  and  to  fame  unknown? 

"  Oh,  I — I  have  my  caprices,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  I  am  a  caprice  ?" 

"  No,  no!"  She  clasped  his  head  between  her  two  palms. 
"No,  you  exceed  a  caprice  ;  you  are  almost  a  passion,  and 
I  may  marry  you  yet." 

"  Well,  Mademoiselle  Caesar,  I  may  not  have  you  my 
self,"  he  returned,  slightly  piqued. 

"  You  may  be  glad  enough  I  even  smiled  on  you, 'not  to 
disdain  what  I  said  ;  for  I  spoke  in  no  jest.  I  don't  usu 
ally  pick  any  one  up,  you  handsome  boy  !  There  are  lots  of 
fellows  would  let  me  walk  on  their  necks  to  get  half  the 
show  you've  had.  Do  you  appreciate  your  advantages  ?" 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          Ill 

she  finished,  laughing  in  his  face  and  patting  his  cheek 
tenderly. 

"  I'm  no  fiddle-string  to  respond  only  to  your  bow, 
young  lady/'  he  declaimed. 

"  Now  don't  get  angry  ;  though  you  do  look  handsome 
with  that  flush !  You  know  you  enjoy  this,  don't  you,  now  ? 
And  what  is  the  use  of  raising  a  row  over  an  idea  that  don't 
exist  and  so  spoil  the  pleasant  time  you  are  actually  having  ? 
To  go  back  to  our  subject,  shall  I  tell  you  why  I  am  so 
fond  of  you  ?  It's  your  looks  mostly.  The  first  time  I  saw 
you  on  the  Avenue,  you  remember,  I  just  wanted  to  kiss 
you.  Your  hair  and  complexion  are  beautiful  enough  for 
a  girl.  There !  do  you  like  that,  ma  belle  ?  Now  kiss  me 
and  don't  growl  any  more,  you  big  beauty  I" 

Clyde  liked  it  perforce.  Vanity  of  the  flesh  is  an  ingre 
dient  of  most  handsome  and  some  ugly  people.  Julian 
would  be  years  older  before  he  could  utterly  disdain  this 
passionate  admiration  for  his  looks. 

She  took  him  to  her  carriage,  explaining  that  Mr.  Sax- 
ton  had  gone  home  two  hours  ago.  When  he  left  with 
Vivian  and  Mrs.  Saxton,  Miss  Eleanor  Van  Vooster  had 
forgotten  his  bad  manners. 

Mancutt  had  offered  his  rooms  to  Julian  that  night.  The 
young  reveller  found  the  secretary  in  his  dressing-gown, 
reading  a  novel  and  smoking  a  Turkish  cigarette. 

"  Hello,  old  man !  just  lay  off  your  toggery  and  get  into 
that  garment  of  leisure  on  that  chair  there.  See  it  ?  Had 
a  good  time,  did  you  ?  Enjoy  it  ?" 

"You  bet !"  answered  Julian,  laconically,  divesting  him 
self  of  his  festive  array.  "Never  had  such  a  jolly  time. 
Tell  you  it  was  a  swell  affair,  and  such  a  gale !" 

"  Ah  !  appropriated  Vivian  and  cut  out  the  other  fel 
lows  ;  I  see,"  said  Mancutt  with  affected  languor.  "  Well, 
tell  me  about  it." 

"  You  ought  to  have  been  there,"  began  Julian. 


172  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

"  I  couldn't,  you  know;  wasn't  admitted ;  haven't  a  liter 
ary  papa,"  snarled  the  secretary. 

Julian  went  on  in  vivid  descriptions  of  the  women  and 
noise  and  expense — and  Vivian. 

They  were  just  ready  to  get  into  bed.  Mancutt  sat  on 
the  edge  and  pointed  his  last  discharge.  "  I  suppose  Sax- 
ton  was  there,  expanding  himself." 

"  What  are  you  always  kicking  at  Saxton  for,  anyway  ?" 
asked  Julian. 

"Me?  Nothing.  I  don't  fire  at  Saxton.  Only  I  can 
picture  his  mug  at  all  aristocratic  circuses — a  mere  annex 
of  his  wife.  Well,  he'll  ascend  soon  enough,  and  then  he'll 
have  a  successor.  His  physician  told  me  he  would  he  dead 
in  a  year — Bright's  disease,  deuced  thing  !" 

A  shift  of  gorgeous  scenes,  a  kaleidoscope  of  brilliant 
colors,  of  tinted  ices,  of  vivid  violet  ey/es — the  orgy  of  his 
brain  in  swift-revolving  fireworks  all  night,  leaving  fev 
ered  hopes  and  hard  ambitions  as  legacies  for  the  morning  ! 

The  progress  we  have  rehearsed  had  daily  commentaries, 
delivered  in  Vivian's  dressing-room.  The  heiress  poured 
out  her  heart  to  her  tiring-woman,  and  Jeannette  was  suffi 
ciently  shrewd  to  invoke  Confidences  and  to  excite  her  mis 
tress  to  deeper  enthusiasm  over  the  young  impecuniosity, 
by  half-queries  and  little  ejaculations  of  admiration  and  in 
nuendoes  of  the  street.  It  suited  the  maid  that  her  mis 
tress  should  wed  a  poor  man  whom  she  could  control  and 
own,  for  then  no  foreign  influence  would  shut  out  the 
maid's  own  power. 

Even  while  Vivian  and  her  maid  raved  over  his  looks, 
and  the  maid  goaded  the  girl's  passion  by  every  means, 
possibly  at  the  very  hour,  Clyde  was  in  his  rooms,  possessed 
of  haughty  pride  that  he  had  brought  down  such  noble 
game.  Poor  boy  !  he  imagined  she  was  a  sort  of  '  grande 
dame,'  and  himself  an  American  expurgated  edition  of  Eu 
gene  de  Rastignac.  Despite  her  free  actions  and  her  hasty 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  173 

surrender,  the  glamour  of  gold  gilded  her,  and  he  prized  her 
as  a  kind  of  social  "  Kohinoor."  Yet  he  never  talked 
with  her  other  than  the  commonplaces  of  society  and  boy- 
and-girl  love;  she  had  no  concern  with  his  mind  or  his  as 
pirations.  She  simply  filled  every  sense-need  full,  and 
satisfied  his  objective  wants — pride,  that  she  was  great; 
comfort,  for  she  invaded  his  solitude  and  stole  away  youth's 
melancholia;  beauty,  for  she  steeped  him  in  her  artificial 
Parisian  perfection  and  smothered  in  her  color,  her  vivacity, 
her  elaborate  toilets,  that  Greek  sense  of  his  for  severity 
and  simple  truth. 

She  became  necessary  to  him,  and  the  sense  of  ownership 
was  developed  and  satisfied  in  her.  She  soothed  with  her 
languors  and  excited  with  her  luxuries;  she  grasped  him  by 
his  vanity  and  made  him  to  bask  in  the  sunlight  of  her  ad 
miration  for  him.  She  was  the  lotus-flower  he  had  not 
dreamt  of,  a  softness  that  sucked  out  altruism.  Higher 
motives  decayed  in  this  sweet  air.  When  the  downtown 
world  of  barter  and  of  matter  weighed  too  heavily,  when 
he  felt  smitten  down  in  humiliation  and  impotency  before 
the  engines  of  commerce,  smothered  by  the  apotheosis  of 
individualism,  he  came  to  her.  She  resuscitated  his  bruised 
self-esteem,  she  restored  him  to  dignity  and  vanity,  the  Gay 
in  her  liked  this  dependence  and  this  power;  she  hung 
before  him  a  real  hope,  a  future  of  consideration  and  sta 
tion,  more  substantial  than  those  dreams  of  a  noble  fame 
or  a  magnificent  manhood. 

In  the  half-light  of  her  boudoir,  in  an  air  that  breathed 
perfumes  of  Indian  gums,  where  the  darkened  colors  glowed 
with  their  own  inner  radiance,  and  the  gleam  of  marble 
limbs  shone  above  lustrous  cloths,  like  the  steel  of  a  dag 
ger  half  hid  in  a  sultana's  bosom,  Vivian  thrust  him  upon 
the  divan,  packed  him  over  with  cushions,  and  kneeling, 
murmured  endearments  in  his  ear.  The  small  siren  fixed 


174  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

him,  she  bought  and  owned  him,  she  used  him  in  a  minia 
ture  Cleopatra  way,  bestowing  upon  him  all  but  herself. 

Was  it  wonderful  the  poor  fool  was  seduced  into  love,  or 
something  like  it  ? 

Was  this  young  innocent  who  left  college  vapid  with  as 
pirations,  to  resist  the  whole  armament  of  modern  volup 
tuousness  ?  Was  it  strange  that  New  York,  her  materialism 
and  her  women,  sapped  his  soul  ? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HAMLET   IN"   BABYLON. 

ONE  night  at  the  Gay  house  Julian  picked  up  a  boo  k 
lying  on  the  table.  It  was  Pascal's  "  Provincial  Letters." 

"Are  you  the  one  here  who  reads  Pascal  ?"  he  asked 
Vivian,  quizzically. 

"  Who's  Pascal  ?"  she  said.  "  Oh,  I  suppose  it's  one  of 
Henry's.  You  know  I  am  not  literary.  I  never  set  up  for 
being  intellectual.  Did  you  think  I  did  ?" 

Her  frankness  pleased  Clyde.  Better  admirable  Philis 
tine  than  canting  posturer! 

"  No  one  ever  accused  you  of  the  sin,  I'm  sure,  you  pretty 
little  ignoramus  !"  and  he  looked  at  her  tenderly,  as  we 
look  at  an  animal  we  love. 

"  But  I  am  not  stupid,"  she  retorted,  facing  him  squarely. 

"  That  is  not  one  of  your  crimes,  either.  Just  see  !  you 
think  me  of  some  importance,  so  you're  absolved  from  any 
taint  of  blockheadeduess,  my  graude  mademoiselle  I" 


TEE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  175 

It  was  true  she  represented  to  him  all  his  vigorous  pas 
sions,  the  vanity  of  youth  and  a  man's  ambition;  but  as  he 
took  the  book  of  Pascal's  from  her  dimpled  hands,  there 
was  born  the  comparison  between  the  woman  and  the  dead 
great  one,  between  his  worldly  existence  and  his  inner  and 
true  self,  between  the  gay,  sun-loving,  desiring,  ambitious 
flesh  and  the  toiling,  renunciating,  ideal-winged  soul  there 
in  encased.  For  the  first  time  within  the  year,  there 
looked  forth  his  old  self,  which  discerned  a  want,  a  some 
thing  not  there,  in  Vivian,  in  society,  in  business.  He 
would  seek  the  owner  of  the  book  the  stranger  in  the  house, 
the  silent  man  of  suppressed  look.  He  felt  that  keen  in 
tellectual  thirst  for  mind-companionship,  the  old  boy-hun 
ger  for  dialectics  and  speculation  and  pure  ideas.  He  had 
been  so  long  without  it,  the  sympathy  of  truly  cultured 
and  curious  minds. 

From  that  time  Julian,  when  he  had  opportunity,  fell  in 
with  Saxton,  much  to  Vivian's  disdain.  What  could  he 
find  in  Henry  ?  Henry  was  so  slow;  for  her  part,  she  would 
be  too  utterly  bored. 

Clyde's  advances  were  impersonally  received.  When  he 
suggested  a  book  or  a  man,  Goethe  or  The  Kepublic,  for 
instance,  interest  crept  into  Saxton's  dim  eyes.  And  when 
Julian  had  proved  by  his  talk  that  he  knew  something  and 
had  ideas,  Gay's  son-in-law  even  broached  literature,  or  a 
philosophical  query  voluntarily.  Each  grew  to  measure 
in  some  degree  the  intellect  of  the  other;  and  they  obtained 
pleasure  and  excitement  in  the  fence  of  minds  to  whom 
nothing  of  human  thought  was  absolutely  unknown.  But 
not  once  did  Saxton  shove  aside  the  screen  before  his  per 
sonal  self,  and  after  a  month's  constant  intellectuel  inter 
course  Julian  read  that  sad  face  no  more  freely  than  at 
first  sight.  The  man  apparently  was  entirely  reserved  and 
never  let  his  hopes  nor  his  griefs  slip  the  leash.  Yet  there 
was  an  unconscious  bond,  for  both  felt  the  other  to  be  an 


176  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

understander  of  what  New  York  either  derides  or  affects, 
but  cannot  buy. 

Their  intimacy  became  so  patent  that  Mancutt  spoke  of 
it,  and  Mrs.  Saxton,  as  Julian  fancied,  bestowed  upon  him 
a  portion  of  that  indifferent  hauteur  she  always  wore  for 
her  husband. 

"  What  makes  you  so  thick  with  that  fool  Saxton  ?  He 
don't  know  enough  to  make  his  living.  Gay  set  him  up  in 
business  by  himself  and  he  busted,  or  would  have,  if  the 
old  man  had  not  kicked  him  out  and  wound  up  the  affairs 
himself.  After  that  he  came  down  into  the  office  and  tried 
it  on  there,  until  Gay  thought  it  easier  to  support  him 
than  to  employ  him."  So  Mancutt  sneered,  not  liking  his 
protege's  new  friendship. 

"Why,  I  thought  he  was  rich  in  his  own  right,"  said 
Julian. 

"  So  he  was,  I  believe,  until  Gay  smashed  him.  Gay  just 
transferred  the  fortune  to  his  own  pocket  for  better  keep 
ing,  that  was  all.  Sort  of  trustee  to  a  lunatic.  Married 
Isabel  when  the  old  man  wasn't  king  of  Wall  Street;  thought 
it  was  a  great  step  upwards  for  Isabel, — the  Saxtons  are  an 
old  family,  you  know.  But  Gayalwajs  hated  him;  he 
wasn't  even  good  enough  to  sell  tea;  so  his  father-in-law 
manipulated  and  broke  him  and  gobbled  his  fortune.  Has 
him  where  he  wants  him,  I  guess.  By  the  bye,  it  won't  do 
you  any  good  with  Gay  to  be  over-intimate  with  his  son-in- 
law,  I  can  tell  you." 

The  shaft  thus  directed  had  effects  the  archer  little 
meant.  Mancutt  appealed  to  his  love  of  success,  the  strong 
est  motive  according  to  the  secretary;  but  his  words  only 
struck  the  scales  from  Julian's  eyes.  That  Saxton  was 
not  able  and  that  the  millionaire  hated  him,  that  prestige 
arched  no  halo  about  his  head,  spoke  to  Julian's  deepest 
compassion.  Many  coldnesses,  manifested  by  the  Gays  to 
wards  the  unsuccessful  man,  were  explained.  When  Clyde 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  177 

saw  the  husband  and  wife  together  and  marked  the  shallow 
impassive  beauty  of  the  woman  and  her  unrestrained  con 
tempt  for  the  languid  downcast  man  law  decreed  her  mate, 
a  loathing  arose  within  him,  a  hatred  of  her  diamonds  and 
her  eagle  face.  In  this  money -palace  the  man  had  lived 
many  years,  as  if  packed  in  a  refrigerator;  his  sympathies 
unuttered,  his  modes  of  thinking  unknown,  his  possible 
talents  despised,  cheated  of  that  success  in  letters  or  sci 
ence  which  might  have  been  his.  This  hourly  humiliation, 
this  continuous  contempt,  this  inveterate  and  unswerving 
ignorance — they  were  his  companions  and  his  intimates. 
Clyde  read  the  subdued  browbeaten  countenance,  he  divined 
all  the  despair  and  the  utter  indifference  and  disgust  in  those 
wan  eyes — eyes  he  had  seen  brighten  over  some  pure  intel 
lectual  theme.  The  sealed  lips  he  had  heard  enthusiastic, 
eloquent  even,  over  Plato  or  Spinoza — they  hatl  the  mark 
of  the  scoffer's  hand  smitten  across  their  tense  silence. 

And  then  the  fatality  of  it — like  a  young  man  he  was 
driven  into  curses.  The  man  might  endure  his  martyrdom 
to  the  end,  and  these  worldlings  would  never  see  his  supe 
riority.  They  had  not  the  sight  for  the  high  things. 

Edwin  Booth  was  acting  Hamlet  before  the  New  Baby 
lonians  that  month  of  December.  Vivian  had  proposed  a 
great  lark  that  should  include  only  those  she  loved  best,  as 
she  said.  She  would  have  Julian,  and  Isabel  could  take 
whom  she  might  wish  and  act  as  chaperone  at  the  same 
time. 

"And  whom  will  Mrs.  Saxton  select?"  asked  Julian. 
"  Not  some  personage  before  whom  we  must  act  the  de 
mure,  will  she  ?" 

"Why,  you  st-o-opid!"  cried  Vivian,  "don't  you  know 
yet  the  person  she'll  take  ?  Mr.  Mancutt,  of  course.  You, 
who  were  so  long-headed  in  getting  in  with  him,  can't  you 
see?" 


178  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

The  four  had  a  box.  They  purposed  a  private  dining- 
room  at  Delmonico's  after  the  play. 

The  great  tragedian  presented  the  mind-sick  Prince  to 
that  audience  of  practical  money-makers  and  lovely  mate 
rial  women.  It  was  a  fashionable  night  and  the  scenery 
was  magnificent.  The  mounting  itself  was  a  drama,  and 
the  mediaeval  costumes  were  a  study  in  styles.  The  mana 
ger  had  conspired  to  arrange  some  very  effective  tableaux 
with  the  lights  and  the  dresses  and  the  colors,  and  Edwin 
Booth's  slate  complexion;  not  that  Shakespeare  ever  viewed 
their  like,  but  thon  they  tintinnabulated  on  the  senses  of 
these  merchant-worldings.  They  were  applauded — the 
setting,  at  least,  was  understood. 

Isabel  with  her  cold  eyes  surveyed  the  theatre.  "  I  think 
the  audience,  the  crowd,  the  varieties  of  men,  more  fasci 
nating  than  that  sixteenth-century  egotist  and  weakling," 
she  announced  to  her  friends. 

Mancutt  protested  loudly.  He  said  Booth's  representa 
tion  was  high  art,  and  as  much  as  the  ideal  sits  crowned 
above  the  prosaic  commonplace,  so  much  the  more  was  this 
supreme  dissection  of  Shakespeare,  blown  through  such  a 
golden-mouthed  trumpet  as  the  great  actor's,  worthy  to  be 
considered,  as  compared  with  the  people  in  the  pit. 

Clyde  always  remarked  it;  the  indifference  of  great 
wealth  led  the  Gays  to  out-and-out  disregard  of  the  usual 
cants  of  society,  while  th6  secretary,  who  had  as  much  elec 
tive  affinity  for  Hamlet  as  an  ordinary  millionaire  for  the 
priceless  pictures  his  vanity  buys,  always  sprang  foremost 
to  assert  the  claims  of  the  stage  of  the  Wagnerian  opera. 
There  is  this  much  about  the  Gays,  they  are  frankly  them 
selves. 

"Oh!"  sighed  Vivian,  "Oh  dear!  I  do  hate  tragedies. 
They're  so  depressing.  Why  should  that  villanously 
dyspeptic  actor  spoil  my  dreams  of  Delmonico?" 

Julian  laughed.     He  wanted  to  kiss  her  for  the  speech; 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  179 

he  knew  it  expressed  so  large  a  share  of  the  real  opinion 
of  the  house.  Mancutt  smiled  condescendingly  on  the 
poor  little  Philistine,  whereupon  Vivian  and  Julian  laughed 
together. 

"We're  all  dyed-in-the-wool  Philistines,  except  you. 
You  represent  the  culture  of  the  crowd,"  he  gibed  at  the 
secretary,  whose  superficial  dogmatism  and  cock-sure  half- 
knowledge  had  often  galled  him. 

The  four  enjoyed  the  play:  Isabel,  like  Balzac,  seeing  in 
the  modern  crowd  of  dress-shirts  and  decolletees  on  the 
theatre-seats  inchoate  tragedies  that  paled  the  stage  into  a 
puppet-show;  Mancutt,  alert,  on  the  watch,  detecting 
every  mechanical  point  of  the  actor's  interpretation  and 
carrying  a  business  problem  in  his  head  to  triumphant  con 
clusion,  for  lights  and  people  always  made  his  brain  un 
usually  clear;  Vivian,  couched  in  her  chair,  »half  yawning 
and  showing  her  pearly  teeth,  with  visions  of  champagne 
and  terrapin  to  come,  a  delicious  piece  of  listlessness,  of 
plump,  colored  flesh  and  violet  eyes;  Julian,  impressed  at 
four  or  five  different  surfaces,  his  impulses  mixing  them 
selves, — to  make  grimaces  at  the  secretary,  to  clasp  Vivian 
and  press  his  lips  against  her  throat,  while  an  admiration 
stole  up  against  his  will  for  the  magnificent  woman  who 
scanned  the  house  with  the  frozen  light  of  her  father's  un 
derstanding  of  men  and  actual  forces  in  her  gray  eyes. 

But  all  four  enjoyed  being  the  cynosure  of  the  theatre. 
Vivian  bathed  her  beauty  in  the  public  gaze  and  Mancutt 
his  self-satisfaction  in  the  envy  of  men,  while  Julian  loved 
it  for  vanity's  sake  and  an  Italian  pleasure  in  social  viva 
city,  and  the  rich  matron  knew  she  was  rich  in  the  eyes  of 
the  gold-hunting  populace  of  energetic  clerks  and  earthen 
women. 

So  Hamlet  was  played  out:  his  supersensitive  sickliness, 
his  morbidities,  and  all  the  deep  distrust  of  existence  and 
doubt  of  reality,  that  belonged  to  the  incompetent  sceptic- 


180  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE-. 

dreamer,  the  unpractical,  sublime  thinking  brain, — played 
out,  laid  bare,  displayed,  stripped  nude,  before  the  devour 
ing  eyes  of  New  Babylon.  What  do  those  worldlings,  those 
able,  unhesitating,  executive  men,  find  in  Hamlet  ?  What 
do  the  women,  beautiful,  material,  mercenary  or  sanely 
commonplace,  seek  of  Hamlet,  the  "  egotist  and  weakling," 
as  said  Gay's  daughter  ?  How  they  attempted  to  find 
some  American  fun  in  it,  to  detect  the  spice  of  Mark 
Twain's  jocularity  in  the  speeches  of  Polonius, — those 
comic-pitched  souls  of  sensational,  humorous  New  York — 
who  would  have  been  better  suited  at  a  minstrel-show, 
that  one,  say,  in  which  Mancutt  had  been  end-man,  far 
back  in  the  years  before  he  struck  upwards  and  rose  with 
millionaire  Gay. 

And  when  the  thing  was  played  out,  and  the  poor  Ham 
let  soul  lay  quenched  forever  on  the  sloping  boards  of  the 
stage,  the  people  emptied  themselves  into  the  street,  some 
to  eat  and  some  to  dalliance,  and  a  few  to  go  home  to  feel 
the  words  of  the  great  actor  in  their  dreams.  Our  four 
travelled  fast  in  their  carriage  to  the  cheer  and  costly  lux 
ury  of  Delmonico's.  Hamlet  and  the  woes  of  men  were 
forgotten,  as  they  sat  down  in  a  room  all  mirrors  and 
'beamed  upon  each  other  in  delicious  anticipation  of  the 
miracles  of  gastronomies  prepared.  They  were  four  merry 
human  stomachs: — Mancutt  so  delighted  to  order  the 
waiters  around,  and  Vivian  frisking  about  like  a  kitten, 
purring  over  her  gloves  and  Julian,  and  the  Roman-coun 
tenanced  Italian  who  stood  behind  her  chair. 

"Now,  Monsieur  Delmonico,"  she  said,  addressing  the 
classic  menial — whereat  they  all  laughed — "we  expect  the 
very  nicest  things  you  have,  and  we  hope  we  won't  have  our 
implicitest  confidence  abused  in  you." 

Augustus  Caesar,  in  servante,  received  her  sally  with  the 
identical  unmoved  face  on  the  imperial  coin,  his  prototype 
in  bas-relief. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  181 

* 

"  Now,  then,  Leonard!  di  Vinci,  you  grave  dog !  get  around 
and  show  me  your  best  trot!"  cried  the  secretary,  holding 
out  to  the  abased  a  five-dollar  bill.  "That  ought  to  oil  the 
machine,"  he  said  to  Julian,  with  his  dental  grin. 

They  came  on,  the  oysters  and  the  unpronounceable  soup, 
and  the  delicate  entrees,  and  the  gorgeous  and  garnished 
salads ;  and  on  and  on,  a  tide  of  fanciful  dishes,  ticketed 
with  pretentious  names.  Then  the  champagne  fizzed  and 
bubbled  in  silver  pails  set  on  the  floor  and  filled  with 
chopped  ice-7-fizzed  as  if  no  shadow  of  a  possibility  of  its 
being  Connecticut  cider,  instead  of  vintage  of  French 
grapes,  impeached  its  veracity. 

These  were  the  daughters  of  John  Gay.  The  obsequious 
servants  faltered  before  Mrs.  Saxton's  half-word  of  want, 
and  the  head-waiter  himself  ascended  from  below  to  ask 
what  command  he  might  obey,  and  if  there  existed  the 
slightest  complaint.  The  fact  crept  around  the  restaurant, 
communicated  itself  to  the  hall-boys  and  the  door-keepers, 
— that  the  two  richest  women  of  New  York,  prospectively, 
were  crowding  their  stomachs  with  the  delicacies  and  wine 
of  Delmonico. 

Julian  moved  in  a  golden  haze;  he  had  some  dim  idea  of 
an  airy  waltz  down  the  apartment,  and  every  whirl  brought 
a  vision  of  a  tall  youth  with  loose  hair,  circling  with  a 
dumpy  little  fairy  decked  out  in  Paris  fashion.  The  mirrors 
flashed  by  him  like  waves  of  clear  water.  He  thought,  too, 
that  Mancutt  leaned  well  forward  and  showered  before  Mrs. 
Saxton  his  whole  store  of  firework  wit  and  Gotham  stories, 
while  she  sat  pleased,  a  complacent  smile  on  her  beautiful, 
flint  face. 

Life  !  He  felt  that  this  was  life,  red-blooded,  tingling  ! 
that  drank  one  up  and  left  not  an  unnamed  longing,  no  pas 
sionate  vacant  aches. 

Finally  it  was  through,  done,  completed !  All  things  end, 
thought  Julian,  sadly,  as  the  four  trooped  down  the  stairs, 


182  TUB  SI^ADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

flanked  and  preceded  by  bows  and  flourishes  of  subservience. 
The  carriage  was  there,  the  Gay  vehicle  of  state,  with  its 
two  black  horses  and  gold-inlaid  harness,  its  liveried  coach 
man  and  imperturbable  high-hatted  footman.  The  ladies 
were  helped  in,  the  gentlemen  followed;  a  bang  of  the 
door,  a  wave  of  white  aprons,  a  sinking  of  lights  into  dark 
ness,  and  off  they  rolled  up  the  wide  granite  of  Fifth 
Avenue. 

Then  Vivian  said  impetuously,  "Mr.  Mancutt,  get  over 
by  Isabel;  I  want  to  sit  next  to  Julian/' 

Mrs.  Saxton  demurred;  but  Vivian  was  determined,  and 
after  a  moment  of  high-hat  hitting  against  the  roof,  the 
young  lady  fell  into  the  s"eat  by  Julian.  So  they  rode, 
Julian  and  Vivian,  and  Mrs.  Saxton  and  the  secretary  side 
by  side. 

They  were  silent  in  the  dark  there;  the  grind  of  the 
wheels  on  the  stone  made  a  dull  noise  that  protected  whis 
perers.  Vivian  cuddled  up  to  Clyde  ;  she  put  her  small 
soft  hand  in  his  and  insisted  that  he  take  the  glove  off.  The 
young  man  was  clearer  in  his  head  now,  and  he  slipped  an 
arm  about  the  soft  child  and  drew  her  tenderly  to  him. 
He  had  never  felt  so  tender;  he  would  like  to  hold  her  al 
ways  this  way,  and  protect  her  from  the  over-strong  world ; 
and  this  chivalric  notion  was  altogether  oblivious  of  the 
fact  that  she  would  have  fifty  millions  to  interpose  bulwarks 
between  her  virginal  weakness  and  the  cruel  plebeian  world 
some  day. 

The  carriage  had  turned  in  near  the  curb  to  pass  a  gas- 
main-hole,  one  of  those  excavations  that  always  obstruct 
New  York.  As  the  coach  swung  under  a  street-lamp,  the 
flare  shot  in,  for  an  instant,  a  little  on  Julian  and  full  on 
the  back  seat — space  sufficient  to  reveal  Mancutt  and  Mrs. 
Saxton  and  the  expression  of  the  man's  face.  A  light 
broke  in  upon  Julian  ;  why,  he  did  not  know,  but  somehow 
the  momentary  gleam  on  Mancutt's  face  had  poured  an  un- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  183 

derstanding  into  events,  heretofore  meaningless.  He  un 
derstood  Mancutt  and  his  schemes  at  last.  He  knew  whence 
the  hatred  of  Saxton;  he  remembered  the  Bright's  disease, 
and  he  shuddered  in  the  dark  that  his  knees  touched  the 
knees  of  that  gambler  in"  death-certificates. 

And  he  felt  Vivian  !  He  lifted  her  from  himself  and 
sank  back  into  his  corner.  And  this  was  the  world  and 
the  Gays  !  The  glamour  of  a  hundred  millions  slipped 
from  that  household,  plucked  away  by  his  sickening  disgust. 
Ugh !  there  was  no  fighting  about  this,  no  Mark  Antony 
in  this  struggle;  only  the  mean  nature  of  a  shopkeeper, 
using  bourgeois  tricks.  The  aristocracy  in  him,  that  builds 
itself  unconsciously  a  code,  felt  nauseated.  He  would 
vomit  forth  the  whole  of  them,  their  little  lies  and  con 
temptible  subterfuges.  The  majestic  Miltonic  Satan,  the 
Caesarian  duplicity,  were  impossible  in  these  democratic 
days  of  thieving  clerks  and  gossiping  good-nature.  Better 
return  to  goodness  and  simplicity  ! 

Vivian  was  piqued.  She  cuddled  in  her  corner  silently; 
she  wasn't  used  to  being  set  up  against  the  wall  in  this 
fashion.  When  the  carriage  drew  up  under  the  Gay  pile, 
the  princess  descended  with  hauteur.  She  took  Clyde's 
arm  and  followed  the  secretary  and  her  sister  up  the  steps. 
She  hated  Julian.  She  bade  him.  good-night  coldly.  Sud 
denly  the  young  man  took  her  fingers  in  his  hand  and 
squeezed  them.  "  I  may  come  to-morrow  ?"  he  whispered  im 
ploringly.  She  passed  in,  appeased.  It  had  struck  him 
his  mood  might  be  different  to-morrow,  and  then  he  would 
kick  himself  for  throwing  a  moment's  temper  in  the  face 
of  fifty  millions.  A  year  ago  he  had  not  calculated  thus; 
he  would  have  obeyed  his  impulse  and  flung  it  generously 
to  scout  an  offered  crown  if  need  were. 

As  the  two  walked  down  tfle  Avenue,  the  secretary  said, 
"Congratulations,  old  boy.  I  watched  you,  and  you're  mak 
ing  progress  famously." 


184  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

Clyde  stopped.     "  Damn  your  smartness  I"  he  broke  out. 

"What's  the  matter  now?  You're  pretty  familiar,  seems 
to  me,"  demanded  the  secretary.  Then  in  his  usual  genial 
tone  he  went  on :  "  You  mustn't  think  you  can  dispense 
with  me  just  yet,  my  young  friend;  even  if  your  feet  are  on 
the  top  rung  of  the  ladder.  You've  got  to  get  off  yet,  and 
that's  the  hardest  part.  Suppose  you  have  got  Vivian 
down  fine ;  the  old  man  comes  in,  and  he'll  have  to  endorse 
any  little  arrangement,  you  know,  before  it's  negotiable." 

Julian  saw  the  truth.  He  must  not  break  with  the 
"kitchen-cabinet."  This  disgust  would  blow  over  by 
morning,  and  for  its  temporal  sake  he  must  make  no  fatal 
ruptures. 

"Besides,  it's  just  possible  we'll  be  brothers-in-law,  some 
time,"  suggested  Mancutt.  "Let's  shake  on  the  future 
connection." 

Julian  shook — not  very  heartily,  however. 

"  On  the  whole,"  concluded  the  secretary, "  we've  done  a 
pretty  good  night's  business.  It  will  pan  out  better  than 
weeks  of  labor  downtown.  I  hope  you'll  catch  Vivian, 
instead  of  some  damned  stuck-up  swell  like  Bergen  Van 
Vooster.  I  thought  he  was  in  at  onetime, and  I  knew  that 
if  that  kind  married  Vivian,  there  was  an  end  to  Gay's 
private  secretary ;  even  if  he  did  know  all  the  old  man's 
schemes  and  was  prepared  to  make  fast  money.  You  see, 
the  Gays  have  some  democratic  notions  left  yet;  but  if 
Isabel  should  get  a  Knickerbocker  millionaire  for  brother- 
.in-law,  she  might  become  vaccinated  with  exclusiveness, — 
don't  you  see  ?" 

"Yes,  I'm  on.  And  that's  why  you  backed  me  for 
Vivian  ?"  said  Julian. 

"  Certainly ;  didn't  think  me  a  fool-philanthropist,  did 
you  ?" 

"  ^Responsibility !  I  bear  Caesar  and  his  fortunes,  "laughed 
Clyde,  with  an  ugly  guttural. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  185 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   PLACE  OF  THE   UNPRACTICAL   GENTLEMAN  IN  SOCIETY 
ON   THE   AMERICAN   PLAN. 

ISABEL  GAY  SAXTON  was  strikingly  handsome;  that  hard 
brilliant  beauty  that  strikes  across  the  vision  with  a  severe 
impression.  She  was  altogether  unlike  her  sister,  who 
was  suggestive  of  all  comfortable  things,  of  cushions  and 
soft  luxuries.  She  always  wore  diamonds,  great  brill 
iants  as  large  as  pebbles  and  shining  a  hard  light  like 
herself. 

Isabel  Gay  had  had  the  career  of  a  professional  beauty, 
although  her  father's  money  was  insufficient  to  garnish  her 
girlhood  with  the  halo  of  his  later  success.  That  clear 
face,  chiselled  and  cut  into  an  impassive  mask  of  marble, 
haunted  men's  memories,  and  there  yet  live  gray-haired 
plodders,  whose  youth  has  dropped  in  ashes  into  the  cinder- 
pan  of  every-day  regularity,  who,  if  any  dream  still  shadows 
them,  retain  a  blurred  picture  of  her  carven  shoulders  and 
moulded  throat. 

She  had  drawn  most  largely  from  her  father.  He  had 
given  her  his  temperament  and  his  tints,  gray  complexion 
and  steel-blue  eyes,  to  be  worked  into  softer  expression  by 
the  blonde  loveliness  of  the  pretty  little  school-teacher 
John  Gay  had  wedded  in  his  youth.  From  her  the  daughter 
had  received  the  firm  flesh  of  her  magnificent  figure  and 
the  buoyant  animal  vivacity  which  gave  her  enjoyments 
from  every  incident  of  living. 


186  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

She  had  first  met  Saxton  in  Homburg,  at  the  Kursaal, 
one  summer  evening. 

The  lights  shone  on  the  marble  and  the  wide  glistening 
floors.  Women  of  the  street  brushed  the  chaste  robes  of 
Georgianas  who  had  bargained  their  charms  for  an  estab 
lishment.  Gamblers  shot  fiery  glances  on  mothers  of  fam 
ilies,  and  daughters  like  Isabel  Gay  drank  the  admiration  of 
the  mixed  assemblage  with  no  discrimination  between  the 
lusty  glance  of  the  devotee  of  sensation  and  the  conventional 
homage  of  the  non-vitalized  gentleman.  The  young  man 
fixed  her,  out  of  all  that  modern  crowd,  as  an  artist  turns 
to  the  Greek  head  in  a  gallery  of  inferior  sculpture.  He 
was  rich,  richer  than  her  father;  he  was  a  Knickerbocker, 
his  grandfather  had  been  a  Cabinet  secretary,  and  his 
grandmother  had  brought  the  strain  of  Washington  Irving 
into  his  family.  She  married  him,  for  it  was  a  brilliant 
match;  and  he  was  a  gentleman,  with  the  manners  and  ap 
pearance  of  distinction. 

As  we  approach  the  middle  of  life  the  fundamental  in 
heritance  emerges  and  crushes  those  equalities  which  youth 
shares  with  every  youth,  even  as  shore-lines  which  at  first 
rise  from  the  sea  in  uniform  levels  break  into  hill-ranges 
and  slope  into  undulations  as  the  ship  draws  landward.  So 
Isabel  Saxton  gradually  put  away  her  girl-qualities  of  tender 
ness  and  admiration  and  amiabilities,  as  the  woman-charac 
ter  crystallized  into  its  real  proportions.  The  father  in  her 
gained  year  by  year,  the  tinted  face  marbled  into  eagle- 
features,  the  wyoman-eyes  sharpened  into  glints  of  steel,  the 
moist  girl- mouth  curved  into  haughty  form.  At  thirty  a 
great  French  sculptor  had  wished  to  model  the  head  of 
his  "  Justice  "  after  hers. 

Power  and  possession  became  the  foci  of  her  ellipse  of 
life.  She  developed  the  ability  of  a  financier;  she  divined 
a  commercial  situation  in  an  instant ;  she  speculated  with 
her  own  money  and  it  was  growing  her  single  passion. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  187 

She  developed  the  hard  contempt  of  the  successful  Wall 
Street  man  for  everything  except  energy  and  shrewdness. 
Her  father  became  her  unconscious  ideal  of  masculin 
ity;  perfect  accord  reigned  between  them.  She  petted 
Vivian  and  despised  her.  She  had  never  been  in  sympathy 
with  her  husband,  and  gradually  she  had  acquired  a  secret 
contempt  for  him.  She  had  never  made  an  allowance  in 
her  own  life  for  his  notions  or  his  desires.  She  had  pur 
sued  her  own  path,  perfectly  self-sufficient,  without  fric 
tion,  altogether  unhindered;  when  she  wished  tocorne  home 
to  live,  she  announced  her  intention,  and  brought  him  along 
with  her  wardrobe  and  maid.  He  was  a  student,  a  dilettante, 
a  cultured  impracticable  gentleman,  who  had  his  ornamen 
tal  uses;  but  he  was  without  capacity  and  she  classified  him 
among  her  other  chattels.  She  knew  enough  of  her  father's 
affairs  to  recognize  the  secretary's  importance  in  them,  and 
she  respected  him  for  his  adroitness  and  his  great  executive 
and  financial  ability.  She  was  too  cold  for  romance,  and 
too  unimaginative  to  swerve  from  the  respectable  line  of 
conduct,  for  Mancutt  ever  to  attempt  the  "  affectionate 
racket,"  as  he  termed  it.  He  simply  grew  indispensable  to 
her  father,  gave  her  hints  in  her  business  operations,  made 
himself  a  constant  and  pleasing  attendant,  and  waited 
until  death  should  play  third  hand  before  he  trumped  the 
trick. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Saxton  lived  with  each  other  for  ten  years, 
absolutely  apart,  however.  There  were  no  tempests.  He 
made  no  protests  against  her  conduct,  and  if  she  winged  a 
sneering  aside  to  him,  he  simply  winced  and  went  out  of  the 
room.  He  had  no  cause  for  offence,  no  excuse  given  him 
to  interfere.  And  then  the  enfeebled  will  of  the  man, 
baffled  in  its  every  desire  since  his  embarkation  on  the 
huge  steamer  of  Gay  success,  still  clung  to  his  wife  in  a 
mute  admiration  of  her  splendid  energy.  He  obeyed  her 
slightest  whim;  he  fetched  her  a  bank-book  ij.-om  her  safe 


188  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

upstairs,  or  set  the  stool  beneath  her  feet  when  she  so  intimat 
ed.  That  wide  mind  of  his,  that  sweet  nature,  were  in  her 
thrall.  But  Isabel  Saxton  had  judgment  and  she  demeaned 
herself  with  high  decorum,  so  that  her  tyranny  was  never 
blatant.  She  loved  power  and  not  its  show.  And  she  had 
liked  Saxton  a  great  deal  a  decade  ago,  and  at  this  time  she 
liked  him  still. 

Perhaps  the  semi-pitying  glances  Julian  Clyde  shot  at 
him  were  observed  and  stung  the  pitied  into  pride.  Per 
haps  the  growing  contemptuous  stare  of  the  secretary  and 
his  little  overlookings  of  the  husband,  as  of  a  straw-man, 
drove  into  passionate  action  the  pride  of  the  self-despiser, 
the  purest  pride  under  heaven.  At  any  rate,  Mrs.  Saxton 
had  a  prelude  to  her  theater-party  and  Delmonico  refresh 
ment  that  was  just  the  bitter  to  rightly  tincture  the  after- 
pleasure. 

She  had  dismissed  her  maid,  and  stood  gazing  at  her 
superb  reflection  in  the  pier-glass.  She  had  already  begun 
the  movement  to  turn  and  go  downstairs  to  greet  the  secre 
tary  and  Julian,  when  her  husband's  slender  frame  slid  un 
certainly  into  her  presence. 

"You  here,  Henry.  Why,  what  is  it?"  she  asked,  a 
note  of  surprise  in  her  voice. 

"Could  you  think  of  taking  me  with  your  party  ?  I — 
I  should  like  to  go  with  you." 

His  wife  had  been  smoothing  her  glove  on  her  hand. 
She  looked  up  quickly. 

"  All  the  arrangements  are  made;  we  can't  very  well  break 
into  them,"  she  said  indifferently. 

"  Please,  I  should  like  to  go — "  he  began. 

When  had  he  been  so  persistent  ? 

"  You  see  enough  of  me  at  home.  I  don't  understand 
your  desire." 

She  caught  up  her  dress  and  prepared  to  sail  majestically 
before  him  down  the  great  stairs  and  on  into  the  room 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  189 

where  the  three  awaited.  She  moved  to  the  door.  She 
had  already  forgotten  him. 

A  passionate  anger  assailed  him,  such  as  his  quenched 
spirit  had  not  stirred  under  for  years.  He  was  powerless 
to  direct  it,  for  it  was  novel,  and  we  always  go  down  before 
a  new  sin  or  an  original  passion. 

He  stepped  before  her  quickly,  so  that  her  head,  flung 
back  haughtily  at  his  opposition,  almost  touched  him.  He 
felt  her  close  to  him,  and  he  looked  into  her  great  inscruta 
ble  gray  eyes. 

"Isabel,  I  intend  to  go  with  ySu,"  he  said,  his  face 
flushed. 

"You  are  misinformed,  my  dear;  let  me  pass,  please." 

The  coolness  exasperated  him. 

"  You  sha'n't  go  with  that  Mancutt  alone.  You're  too 
intimate,  anyway." 

Her  eyes  blazed  two  inches  from  his  nose.  It  was  the 
wrath  of  John  Gay  over  again;  and  before  that  anger  of  a 
strong  will,  the  fierceness  of  his  weaker  temper  quailed. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?"  she  said,  in  low  tones.  "  Is 
it  insult  you  dare  direct  against  me  ?  Do  you  for  a  moment 
forget  I  am  Isabel  Gay,  that  I  never  stoop  ?  Ah  !  you  are 
contemptible  to  believe  me  capable  of  a  letting  down,  and 
if  you  had  spirit  you  would  seek  the  man,  not  your  wife." 
She  gave  him  one  stab  of  a  look  that  broke  his  thin  skin 
and  pierced  into  his  self-respect  with  a  poisoned  taunt. 
He  sank  out  of  her  path,  and  she  paraded  down  before  his 
eyes,  a  living  triumph  over  his  insignificance.  She  soon 
forgot  the  incident,  she  was  so  taken  up  with  .real  things. 

But  another  had  heard  and  had  smiled  grimly  over  his 
daughter's  masterfulness.  "The  puppy!  how  came  it  that 
she  ever  married  such  a  watery  creature,  anyhow?  That  idea 
about  Mancutt,  though,  is  not  bad  ;  queer  I  never  thought 
of  it.  He  knows  a  good  deal  about  me,  and  there  ought 
to  be  some  one  to  hold  the  reins  when  I'm  gone.  I  suppose 


190  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

Vivy'll  marry  a  fool,  and  then  who  is  to  handle  things?  For 
no  ordinary  man  can  drive  my  team.  If  that  fellow  would 
get  out,  Mancutt's  the  exact  man  to  a  dot." 

Saxton  sat  down  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  after  his 
wife's  exit.  What  a  miserable  affair  he  was!  He  asked 
himself  if  he  had  any  reason  for  being.  What  did  he  sup 
ply  to  the  world,  of  evil  or  of  good,  that  it  owed  him  of 
woe  ,or  of  happiness?  Nothing.  He  had  been  a  piece  of 
furniture  in  Gay's  house  for  a  decade,  one  of  his  wife's 
luxuries,  wherefor  her  father  paid  some  ten  thousand  a 
year — clothes,  horses,  clubs,  dinners,  and  the  non-necessities 
of  a  leisured  man.  And  his  vanished  youth  came  up 
to  him — how  different!  Those  lost  ideals  of  his,  those 
smothered  aspirations,  that  desire  to  know  and  understand, 
and  his  young  contempt  for  the  "average  sensual  man  !" 
He  had  become  that  loathsome  thing;  for  he  buried  his  old 
nature  and  distracted  his  uneasiness  with  champagne-din 
ners  with  a  few  of  his  old  chums,  and  he  chatted  away 
the  time  which  was  to  have  brought  him  learning  and  at 
tainment.  He  asked  himself  why,  wherefore  this  degenera 
tion?  The  cold  Gay  faces  rose  up  and  surrounded  him, 
even  as  the  bergs  tilt  up  against  the  Arctic  explorer's 
doomed  ship  and  wall  it  round  with  Polar  desolation. 
Those  acquisitive,  unfeeling  countenances,  that  had  chilled 
him  every  day,  had  drawn  the  zest  of  life  and  left  it  flaccid; 
a  term  pf  years  consumed  with  groceries  and  dresses  and 
stocks  and  traffickings.  This  young  fellow  who  played  now 
about  Vivian's  caudle,  eager  to  get  his  wings  singed,  how 
like  to  himself  in  those  gone  days!  Julian  recalled  to  him 
his  old  happier,  better  self.  Yes,  yes,  so  it  was.  But  what  to 
do,  what  to  do  now?  Will  he  slip  down  this  present  ignoble 
path,  trodden  on  by  his  wife,  despised  by  the  man  who 
aspired  to  his  empty  shoes,  furnished  by  the  old  man  with 
the  wherewithal  for  a  Sybarite  existence?  Was  there  a 
possible  freedom  for  him?  If  he  made  an  effort,  and  a 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  191 

bold  one,  could  he  cut  these  millionaire-meshes  and  get  to 
be  a  man?  His  first  ambitions  came  from  their  grave,  and 
all  the  hopes  and  prophecies  of  those  early  friends,  his 
friendship  with  Agassiz  and  his  worship  for  Emerson. 

Across  the  hallway  the  millionaire  paced  his  padded  feet. 
He  came  within  and  faced  his  brooding  son-in-law.  Saxton 
looked  up,  and  the  confronting  face  of  coolness  and  clear 
eyes  seemed  to  evaporate  the  mist  about  him.  He  felt  the 
genius  of  common-sense  would  stab  his  romantic  notions. 
Ten  minutes  from  now  he  would  wonder  he  could  have 
dreamed  there  was  a  realm  outside  the  world  of  sordid  fact. 
Mr.  Gay  dropped  into  an  easy  chair  and  arranged  his  limbs 
easily. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  fixing  his  shadowless  eyes  on  Saxton, 
— "Well,  what's  this  row  about?" 

"  You  probably  understand  sufficiently  to  need  no  ex 
planation." 

"  You  imply  something,"  said  the  millionaire,  in  his 
dangerous  tone. 

11  Not  at  all.  I  merely  remarked,  sip,  that  you  knew 
what  it  was,  and  need  not  feign  ignorance  to  draw  me  out." 

"Humph  !"  exclaimed  Gay. 

"  For  I  won't  be  drawn  out,"  pettishly. 

"Won't,  eh?" 

"  She's  my  wife,  and  if  you  choose  to  overhear  my  private 
conversation  with  her,  it  is  not  your  concern/'  The  blue 
light  of  anger,  caused  by  questioned  authority,  sprang  into 
Clay's  eyes. 

The  millionaire  divined  where  the  sting  was,  and  he 
lashed  out. 

"  So  you  wish  to  define  my  right  of  protection  over  my 
daughter,  when  I  hear  her  good  name  attacked,  as  an  in 
trusion,  eh  ?  Strikes  me  it's  like  a  puppy,  one  picks  out 
of  the  gutter,  occupying  your  own  bed  and  defying  tres 
pass." 


192  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

The  -victim  writhed. 

"  I'm  no  dependant  of  yours/'  gasped  Saxton. 

"No,  no;  nothing  leechy  about  you,  as  all  the  world 
knows.  You  have  not  sucked  your  sustenance  out  of  youi 
father-in-law,  oh  no!" 

"  I  tell  you  I  brought  as  much  as  I  have  taken,  and  you 
know  it  too.  Besides,  I  gave  you  and  your  parvenues 
an  entrance  into  society  and  a  standing  other  than  mere 
money." 

"  Ah,  no  doubt,  you're  quite  the  leaven  of  the  lump, 
with  your  damned  blood  and  culture  and  your  prowling 
ideas  at  night." 

"You're  a  brute!" 

"  You're  a  gentleman,  a  scholar  to  boot,  and  a  son  of 
both." 

Saxton  was  silenced.  All  his  violent  anger  seemed  so 
senseless  against  this  cynical,  smiling  money-despot.  As 
well  let  a  battle-ship  batter  the  basalt  Palisades.  It  was 
so  absurdly  ineffectual. 

The  millionaire  rose  and  stood  over  him. 

"  I'm  an  illiterate  old  cuss,  according  to  your  standard, 
I  know.  A  little  vulgar  too.  You  are  the  sixth  genera 
tion  of  culture  and  damned  literary  and  all  that.  But  I've 
got  the  whip-hand  ;  I  hold  the  coin,  and  don't  you  fight 
me  !  -  I  can  down  you  every  time,  and  you  know  it.  You 
couldn't  earn  your  salt  to-morrow.  Dare  to  speak  to  Belle 
again  the  way  you  did  to-night,  or  interpose  one  objection 
to  her  friendship  with  Mr.  Mancutt,  who  is  ten  times  more 
a  man  than  you,  and  you  can  walk  your  cultured  carcass 
out  of  my  house." 

He  eyed  Saxton  for  a  minute  to  see  if  any  signs  of  re 
bellion  appeared  in  that  cowering  figure.  Then  he  went 
out.  The  millionaire  enjoyed  this  crushing  a  man  into  a 
nonentity.  This  was  the  reverse  of  the  Gay  coin,  the  op 
posite  face  to  that  of  that  great  business  capability,  which 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  193 

was  seen  of  the  world.  Such  was  the  last  stage  of  the  un 
practical  ;  let  us  see  what  his  first  had  promised. 

In  the  year  187-,  in  London,  two  famous  literary  people 
had  talked  together  at  an  afternoon  reception. 

The  man  was  an  American,  known  as  a  novelist,  and  for 
his  criticisms  on  American  society  and  his  revolt  against  the 
great  ruling  Philistine  ideals  of  his  countrymen.  He  had 
a  fine  face,  in  which  everything  but  intellectual  percep 
tion  seemed  worn  away,  like  a  shell  one  picks  up  on  tke 
seashore  with  all  the  glutinous  substance  dissolved  out 
of  its  lime  framework.  There  was  so  much  fineness  and 
delicacy  about  the  whole  man  that,  beside  the  solidly 
built  woman  he  talked  with,  his  figure  had  a  want  of 
strength.  The  Englishwoman  had  the  deep  chest  and  the 
sturdy  neck  of  the  middle  classes,  and  her  features  were 
heavy  in  repose,  but  a  passionate  lightning  flamed  over 
them  frequently.  She,  too,  was  a  portrayer  of  human  life; 
but  she  stormed  the  soul  and  had  won  the  world's  heart ; 
she  had  wept  over  the  world's  story,  before  she  set  it  forth 
in  ink. 

"What  does  your  America  with  such  men?"  she  asked 
the  novelist.  She  pointed  to  a  young  man  whom  some 
one  had  just  introduced  to  a  neighbor  as  an  American. 
"  I  can  discern  his  type  at  a  glance,  and  I  ask  you,  does 
the  American  economy  consider  it  ?  What  will  your  gigan 
tic,  utilitarian,  material,  individualistic,  humorous,  petty 
America  do  with  him  ?" 

A  bitter  curl  of  the  bearded  lips,  born  of  the  smart  of 
experience, — "  For  the  most  part,  we  let  his  kind  rot,"  an 
swered  the  American,  abruptly. 

The  woman  felt  she  had  struck  the  strained  chord  of  her 
companion's  life,  and  with  artistic  curiosity  she  struck  it 
again.  "  If  that  type  is  repudiated  in  America,  how  is  it 
you  produce  them  ?  I  see  so  many  such,  young  fellows, 
with  heads  flung  high  in  the  air,  parading  Europe  by  the 


194  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

score  ;  and  they  are  platonists,  all  of  them.  How  do  you 
explain  it  ?" 

The  novelist  set  about  the  required  explanation  with  an 
abstract  air,  as  if  analyzing  a  chemical  compound.  He  put 
one  index-finger  in  the  palm  of  the  other  hand. 

"  He  is  one  of  many,  as  you  say.  And  he  looks  typical, 
don't  you  think  ?  all  ideal  and  very  little  of  the  trader  or 
practical  fittest-survivor  about  him.  America  is  so  strong, 
she  produces  or  imports  everything.  Now,  we  have  New 
England  and  a  remainder  of  the  old  spirit,  which  exists 
apart  from  the  present  American  life.  It  is  clustered 
mainly  about  our  college-towns  and  old  conservative  places. 
Then  we  model  our  universities  on  the  schools  of  Europe. 
"We  shape  our  curriculum  after  European  models;  our  pro 
fessors  have  studied  in  Berlin  and  Paris.  Thus  the  con 
ception  of  education  is  European,  and  the  views  of  life 
that  prevail  there  are  European.  I  urge  no  protest  against 
that  fact,  but  only  contend  that  it  accounts  for  such  prod 
ucts,  such  metaphysical  alien  Americanizations,  as  this 
young  fellow.  Our  young  men  of  mind  imbibe  the  spirit 
of  European  society  and  non-utilitarian  ideals.  "We  rear 
our  youth  in  the  purest  and  highest  atmosphere,  and  then, 
after  college,  after  a  year  of  travel,  we  set  him  down  with 
an  emphatic  jolt  on  a  high  stool  and  give  him  his  creed, 
'  God  is  on  the  side  of  the  almighty  dollar,  and  success 
declares  the  man.'  Thus  you  may  often  strike  against  a 
transcendentalist  under  the  garb  of  an  insurance-clerk, 
or  a  poetical  dilettante  prancing  the  Stock  Exchange. 
jSuch  is  the  fifth  act  to  Goethe — strivings,  and  high  disin 
terestedness." 

"  Oh,  the  pity  of  it,  the  pity  of  it!"  the  woman  broke 
out.  "  Look  at  the  boy  with  his  German  head,  and  the 
black  locks,  and  the  understanding  of  the  face.  Ah !  your 
America  will  strangle  all  that  out  of  him,  will  sneer  down 
his  ideals  and  bring  out  his  common-sense.  It  was  bad 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  195 

enough,  when  you  had  New  England,  and  now,  you  tell  me, 
even  that  is  swamped  beneath  the  tide  of  the  Western 
spirit  and  your  immigrant  pauperism."  & 

The  American  listened  without  sign  of  disapproval  to 
this  British  and  literary  verdict  of  America;  for,  at  bottom, 
he  felt  he  owed  his  country  a  grudge  in  that  she  was  his 
undoubted  mother,  and  he,  despite  his  English  beard  and 
sympathies,  considered  that  he  still  held  the  impress  of  her 
deformity. 

"That  is  it,"  he  said,  pulling  his  long  mustache.  "I 
remember  my  own  youth  and  how  I  crossed  back  the  sea 
with  an  enthusiasm  for  my  great  new  land,  how  I  exalted 
her  hegemony  in  material  prosperity  and  bound  up  my 
own  ambitions  with  her  intellectual  future!  Ah!  thirty 
years  ago  we  were  not  all  trade,  and  New  York  was  not  yet 
a  bourgeois  Paris.  We  had  then  a  great  struggle  ahead, 
and  in  its  shadow  we  were  spiritualized." 

The  young  fellow  who  excited  this  conversation  of  twenty 
years  ago  was  Henry  Saxton,  just  returned  from  Paris, 
where  he  had  studied. 

In  that  same  year  Mancutt  gathered  together  his  profits 
of  five  years'  minstrelsy  and  embarked  in  business.  He 
had  no  antecedents;  he  sprang  from  a  blank  past.  He  had 
been  educated  in  the  streets,  and  necessity  had  quickened 
his  wits;  he  could  see  the  opening  in  the  crowd  through 
which  to  slip  and  wriggle  to  success.  He  had  no  arrows  in 
his  quiver,  save  his  alert  sense,  his  genial  hardness,  his  en 
gaging  immorality.  He  prided  himself  on  his  generosity 
and,  indeed,  he  was  not  mean.  He  had  known  no  world 
save  that  of  business;  he  had  learned  his  social  precepts 
from  the  Bohemia  of  second-rate  actors  and  sporting  man 
agers. 

These  two  men  came  to  the  lists  together  with  these 
diverse  preparations  and  different  conceptions. 

It  was  perhaps  a  week  after  the  theatre-night  that  Mr. 


196  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

Saxton  invited  Clyde  to  dine  with  him  at  the  "  Belshazzar 
Club."  Of  course  Julian  went  joyfully  to  dine  at  that  swell 
club  of  amillionairedom.  He  was  glad,  too,  to  meet  Saxton 
privately,  for  he  experienced  more  and  more  the  thirst  for 
intellectual  communion  and  understanding.  How  many 
feel  that  thirst  in  New  York!  If  only  for  a  moment  the 
pleasure  and  business  crowds  would  dissolve  around  one 
and  admit  a  single  sympathetic  ray,  to  which  might  be 
revealed  the  unpractical  questions  which  never  accrue  to 
one's  profit,  and  the  poetic  desires  that  are  incompatible 
with  common-sense  limitations! 

They  dined  splendidly  in  a  much  decorated-room  set 
with  little  tables.  Men  in  couples  and  singly,  were  dis 
persed  up  and  down,  eating,  and  talking  over  their  wine. 

The  two  conversed,  in  the  French  sense  of  the  word — 
quick  touches,  lively  remarks,  of  literature,  of  society, 
of  politics,  of  affairs  in  Europe.  Both  were  happy,  feel 
ing  that  they  were  understood.  Round  about  them  the 
New  York  talk  went  on,  made  up  of  sporting  news,  busi 
ness  and  the  inevitable  stories.  Men  laughed  perforce,  out 
of  convention.  Is  not  humor  our  one  social  talent  ?  They 
spoke  of  the  war-scare  in  Europe  and  the  chances  of  a 
future  fight.  Mr.  Saxton  had  read  in  the  evening  paper 
a  long  article  on  the  condition  of  the  German  working- 
people,  in  which  Bismarck  was  condemned. 

"As  for  that,  I  believe  the  German  masses  are  happier 
than  ours.  They  have  not  the  restlessness  and  the  con 
tinued  longing  for  better  material  position  that  poisons  the 
content  of  our  working  people.  And  they  have  ten  amuse 
ments  to  our  laborer's  one.  They  inherit  the  distinctive 
modes  of  pleasure  which  have  belonged  to  them  as  a  class 
for  generations,  while  our  toilers  have  nothing  peculiar  to 
themselves  except  their  toil.  They  are  composed  of  all 
people  and  ranks,  they  have  the  ambition  of  Americans 
and  the  tastes  of  freemen.  It  would  be  all  very  well,  but 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  197 

that  ninety-and-nine  out  of  every  hundred  are  doomed  to 
disappointment  and  so  to  unhappiness.  A  civilization 
which  permits  its  average  citizen  to  drink  beer  and  delight 
in  music  and  work  contentedly  is  not  so  bad  as  our  news 
papers  make  out." 

"  I'm  with  you/'  Clyde  answered.  "  I  go  farther.  The 
German  system  itself  has  merits,  and  the  army  is  worth  all 
it  costs.  Von  Moltke  is  right.  War  and  its  manhood, 
the  military  and  its  discipline,  the  continual  pressure  of 
enemies  and  the  consequent  feeling  of  nationality,  are 
worth  blood  and  tears  and  miserable  shekels.  That  is  bet 
ter  than  being  besotted  with  the  money-curse  a  la  Tenny 
son's  '  Maud.'  "  Julian  forgot  that  Saxton  belonged  to  the 
millionaire  order. 

Saxton  smiled  approvingly,  as  if  the  sentiments  were 
those  he  had  long  wanted  to  hear  but  had  not  dared  to 
utter. 

Julian  went  on. 

"  They  may  scorn  Herr  Bismarck  all  they  choose,  but  he 
has  done  what  philanthropists  and  politicians  couldn't  even 
conceive.  He  has  presented  to  the  young  men  of  Germany, 
to  all  Germany,  an  ennobling  principle,  something  to  live 
for  other  than  mere  personal  gain." 

"  That  Germany,"  said  Saxton,  wistfully,  as  if  addressing 
a  dream  of  his  mind, — "  That  Germany,  whose  men  are  noble 
and  strong,  whose  ideal  is  not  Commodore  Vanderbilt, 
under  whose  eagles  the  thinker  is  not  despised  and  the 
doer  of  valiant  deeds  for  the  many's  sake  is  not  sneered  at ! 
If  royalty  by  divine  right,  and  blood-and-iron  Chancellors, 
and  tremendous  armaments,  make  her  what  she  is, — why 
then,  Bismarck  is  right  and  the  normal  condition  for  a  na 
tion  is  a  strenuous  resistance  to  outward  foes,  thereby  en 
gendering  within  wholesome  sacrifice  to  public  good  and 
other  motives  than  selfish  comfort." 

"It's  better  than  commonplaceness   and  Carthaginian 


198  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

barter,  at  the  least.  They're  always  telling  how  the 
army  service  draws  young  men  in  the  prime  of  life 
from  trade.  That's  an  advantage.  It  improves  them 
physically  and  teaches  them  to  a  certain  degree  the  heroic 
qualities ;  it  lifts  them  above  the  stomach  and  the  per 
sonal  needs  for  a  little  while  and  at  the  very  entrance  of 
life." 

"  Oh,  we  needn't  talk  !"  Saxton  responded.  "  Our  pen 
sions  cost  us  about  as  much  as  Germany's  army  costs  her. 
And  after  all,  our  Anglo-Saxon  individualism  and  lai.<.« •-•- 
faire  has  based  us  on  a  poverty  such  as  no  other  age  can 
present.  Germany  has  no  East  End  London  pauperism, 
nor  such  as  we  ourselves  are  fast  growing,  here  in  the 
Eastern  cities." 

"  But  the  main  point  is  the  type  of  manhood  the  two 
civilizations  create,"  urged  Julian,  impetuously, — "  whether 
the  Crown  Prince  Frederick  and  the  old  Kaiser  and  Bis 
marck  and  Moltke  are  not  nobler  than  that  young  man 
there,  for  instance,  eating  his  dinner  and  talking  to  the 
waiter."  Julian  tossed  his  head  in  the  direction  of  Russell 
P.  Andrus,  Junior. 

They  both  regarded  him. 

Eussell  P.  Andrus,  Jr.,  was  a  youth  of  twenty-five,  of 
full  habit  and  plump,  pink  face.  He  resembled  a  fat 
capon,  his  favorite  dinner-prey.  He  had  nothing  to  inherit 
from  his  father,  save  the  money;  for  the  energy  and  busi 
ness  sagacity  born  out  of  struggle  and  meagre  New  Eng 
land  the  elder  Andrus  possessed  merely  as  a  life-estate, 
which  he  could  not  devise  to  his  heirs.  The  younger 
Andrus  ate  his  sumptuous  dinner  and  spoke  to  the  waiter 
between  times.  "  Emile,  what's  this  salad  ?  I'm  extremely 
interested  in  its  composition.  I  wish  you  would  write  its 
recipe  out  for  me,  so  I  can  preserve  it." 

"  I  will  do  so,  sir,  with  pleasure,  sir." 

"You  can  get  me  a  pint  of  Madeira.     This  is  my  day  for 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  199 

that  wine.  You  see,  I  never  drink  Madeira  except  when  I 
dine  alone." 

When  the  waiter  had  brought  the  Madeira, 

"  I  have  a  wine  for  every  occasion.  Depends  on  how  I 
dine,  whether  alone  or  with  other  gentlemen,  and  I  always 
consider  what  I  purpose  to  do  in  the  evening  as  well/' 

The  waiter  murmured  his  appreciation  and  poured  out 
the  liquid. 

"  Now  this  morning  I  took  a  light  breakfast.  I  never 
partake  of  an  American  breakfast  after  a  night  of  late 
amusement.  So  I  just  had  coffee  and  two  of  the  delicate 
rolls  of  the  '  Sybarite  Club/  I  always  breakfast  at  the 
Sybarite.  Then  I  had  a  vermouth  cocktail.  Don't  you 
think  one  needs  a  vermouth,  or  something  of  that  order  of 
a  morning?  Lunch  was  delayed  to  three,  for  I  could  not 
enjoy  it,  after  so  late  a  breakfast,  until  that  hour.  Then  I 
had  oysters,  a  salad,  a  shred  of  quail,  and  a  taste  of  veal 
truffled,  some  vegetables,  of  course,  and  for  dessert  some 
rum-cakes  and  English  plum-pudding.  I  flanked  it  with 
a  pint  of  Pontet-Canet, — always  confine  myself  to  claret  at 
lunch.  Now,  let  me  see:  you  must  get  me  a  Victoria 
Eegina — I  always  smoke  that  cigar  here  and  the  Henry  Clay 
Specials  at  the 'Sybarite;'  you  excel  in  that  brand  here. 
Let  me  see :  do  I  want  anything  more  ?  Just  go  over  with 
me  what  I  have  had  and  let  me  see  if  anything  else  sug 
gests  itself  as  necessary  to  the  harmony,  so  to  speak." 

The  two  listeners  rose  from  the  table,  and  bowed  to  the 
club-man  as  they  passed  out. 

"  He  is  Lucullus  without  elegance  or  wit,  a  prosaic  gen 
tleman,  with  plenty  of  money  and  nothing  to  do,  who 
treats  himself  as  if  he  were  a  boiler,"  said  Saxton. 

"  He  is  a  man  of  fashion  who  decrees  conventions  and 
marshals  germans,"  sneered  Julian. 

They  passed  upstairs  through  a  parlor  where  three  men, 
two  of  them  lawyers,  were  talking.  One  said,  "  I  under- 


200  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

stand  lie  makes  his  living  out  of  his  books,  and  so,  I  sup 
pose,  we  can  forgive  him  his  high  music." 

Another  responded,  "  Well,  yes,  only  a  man  hates  to 
have  a  fellow  pose,  when  he's  after  the  coin  as  much  as  any 
one  of  the  other  vulgar." 

A  third  insinuated, — "  Hump!  it  is  the  same  old  game  of 
the  loaves  and  fishes.  There  isn't  any  romance  in  reality." 

The  two  passed  on.  In  all  that  great  club-house,  whose 
members  embraced  New  York's  wealthiest,  were  heard  but 
business  and  chat  and  the  practical  aspect  of  life.  Where 
elegance  and  fashion  gather  in  New  York,  little  of  wit  or 
art  or  dialectics  passes.  It  is  always  affairs,  affairs,  deals 
and  chaff. 

Later  in  the  evening,  the  secretary  met  Julian  by  ap 
pointment  at  the  Hoffman  House  bar.  Julian  was  glum. 
"  What's  the  matter,  old  man  ?" 

"Nothing;  only  I  am  sick  of  things.  I  have  half  a  no 
tion  to  give  it  up." 

"  No,  you  won't  either,  my  friend.  Yon're  not  discour 
aged.  You  are  getting  along  in  splendid  shape.  Just  look 
at  that  last  promotion  of  yours.  Why,  Gay  intends  to  do 
a  lot  for  you."  Mancutt  looked  astonished. 

"  But  I  am  not  cut  out  for  a  business  man,"  responded 
Clyde. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  now  ?  Vivian  and  you  had 
a  crack  ?  See  here :  don't  you  know  enough  to  recognize  a 
good  thing?  Just  see  how  swimmingly  you  have  got  along 
so  far." 

The  secretary  had  the  genuine  good-nature  of  a  New 
Yorker.  He  was  determined  to  pull  Julian  out  of  this  fit 
of  blues. 

"  That  isn't  it,"  interposed  Julian. 

"Gay  your  well-wisher,  an  heiress  gone  on  you,  and 
rapid  promotion!  Do  you  want  the  earth?  If  you'd  had 
my  hard  climb,  you  might  complain." 


TEE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  201 

"  I'm  not  complaining  ;  I  only  mean,  I  don't  believe  I've 
got  the  requisite  qualities." 

"  Qualities  I"  echoed  Mancutt.  "  All  that's  required  is 
force  and  good-nature,  and  you've  got  both.  Why,  man,  I 
had  to  have  perseverance;  I  can  remember  the  time  when 
I  entered  a  broker's  office  only  to  get  edged  out  politely.  I 
just  took  it  good-naturedly,  and  finally,  by  taking  things 
with  a  smile  and  always  bobbing  up  serenely  again,  I  was 
first  permitted  and  then  welcomed.  What  have  you  got  to 
make  you  down-hearted,  when  every  door  in  New  York  is 
open  to  you  and  every  office  is  graciousness  itself?" 

The  picture  of  the  secretary's  cringing  and  eating  dust 
in  order  to  profit,  Julian  compared  with  that  military  bear 
ing  and  self-respectful  dignity  he  had  talked  about  with 
Saxton  as  so  admirable.  He  drank  his  cocktail  in  a  loath 
ing  of  the  secretary.  The  splendid  saloon,  its  tapestries 
and  its  paintings,  its  glare  of  light  and  the  hum  of  conver. 
sation,  the  clashing  of  tankards  and  the  movement  of  the 
crowd, — all  drove  a  disgust  into  his  soul.  Verily  in  this 
democratic  age,  when  power  was  bestowed  by  the  suffrages 
of  the  many,  wheedling  and  humiliation  were  the  wheels  of 
success.  Bah !  how  he  hated  the  multitude  !  The  face  of 
Eoscoe  Conkling  looked  down  upon  him,  that  proud  man's 
face,  imperious  and  haughty,  who  had  gone  down  because 
he  would  not  bend.  Even  abilities  such  as  his  could  not 
afford  to  dispense  with  complaisance  to  that  commonplace 
average  which  tyrannized  the  age. 


202  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

KEACTIOJST. 

UP  in  Exmoor  for  the  last  year  the  widow  Ballard  had 
reigned  sovereign  by  grace  of  the  favor  of  Mr.  Gay.  The 
millionaire  had  bought  the  faculty  by  his  promissory  note 
of  three  millions  of  dollars,  and  Mrs.  Ballard  was  the  re 
gent  through  whom  he  acted.  Everybody  in  Exmoor, 
except  the  critic  Keyes,  bowed  their  necks  to  the  New  York 
man,  and  the  professors  who  had  disliked  her,  the  leaders  of 
provincial  fashion  who  had  underrated  her,  made  little 
manifestations  of  regard,  extending  those  slight  courtesies 
to  her  which  are  tokens  of  the  world's  consideration.  The 
widow  sat  in  her  house  and  they  came  to  her.  She  discussed 
the  new  plans  with  President  Pompes  and  suggested  novel 
ties  for  the  curriculum  to  Doctor  Ponder.  Every  wish  of 
Mr.  Gay's  passed  through  her  mouth.  The  millionaire  was 
delighted  to  exalt  her  and  to  think  of  those  cultured  men 
quivering  at  her  nod.  He  clothed  her  with  power  as  other 
men  clothe  their  mistresses  with  rich  garments  and  jewelry. 
He  understood  that  he  best  pleased  her  so,  and  he  had  an 
exorbitant  pride  that  he  could  give  her  that  costly  trinket. 

Perhaps  her  influence,  more  than  any  merit  of  his  own, 
conspired  to  gain  for  Julian  quick  promotion  in  the  Wall 
Street  office.  Gay  himself  saw  to  the  young  man ;  he  pushed 
him  through  the  approaches  and  had  lately  dragged  him 
into  the  very  citadel  of  his  own  private  office.  Julian  felt 
the  clerks  were  exceedingly  respectful.  He  was  sitting  in 
the  sun  of  the  world's  regard,  and,  as  the  secretary  inti- 


TSE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          203 

mated,  any  man  of  horse-sense  should  have  blessed  his  stars 
and  felt  happy. 

Nevertheless  the  December  morning  after  his  dinner 
with  Saxton,  Julian  rose  with  a  tired  feeling.  As  he 
dressed,  life  seemed  to  him  bare,  made  up  of  disjointed, 
minute  fragments,  wretched  details  with  which  one  must 
occupy  himself ;  but  he  had  a  feeling  that  they  were 
beneath  his  best  self.  He  ate  his  breakfast  sullenly,  he  as 
cended  the  Elevated  stairs  to  the  train  with  a  dogged  reso 
lution  to  pursue  the  barren  day's  existence,  face  the  gruc- 
someness  of  its  flat  hours  of  uninteresting  minutes,  and 
fling  himself  through  them  and  be  done  with  them,  as 
speedily  as  might  be.  The  deeds  counted  by  the  many  as 
great  seemed  to  him  trivial  in  essence,  so  utterly  without 
lasting  significance,  so  merely  temporary. 

The  train  sped  down  the  streets  making  for  the  business 
city. 

Was  this  all  of  life  ?  "Were  there  no  moments  of  supreme 
being,  no  instances  when  passion,  or  triumph,  or  love,  or 
heroism,  packed  all  of  sense  and  mind  and  soul  into  one 
immediate  point?  This  monotonous  round  of  mediocre 
days — nine  hours  of  solid  sleep  and  three  meals  of  taste- 
gratification,  eight  hours  of  close  attention  to  figures  and 
papers  and  bargains,  a  slice  of  social  chit-chat  or  of  danc 
ing,  with  a  slim  slip  of  unspeculative  convention  between 
the  work  and  the  slumber, — such  was  the  unvarying  time- 
wheel.  And  not  a  faculty  other  than  care  and  attention, 
and  the  usual  sociability  of  the  social  animal,  brought  into 
play  or  needed  for  success  !  Bah  !  it  was  stupid.  A  clean- 
faced,  portly  gentleman  opposite  him — would  he  not  have 
smiled  a  superior  smile  and  laughed  at  the  young  fool's 
"transcendent  asininity  "?  Julian  thought  so.  But  what 
did  it  matter  ?  Must  he  come  down,  then,  to  this  bread-and- 
butter  conception  of  life  ?  How  he  loathed  it  !  Was  it 
true  that  poetry  and  nobility  and  rhetoric  and  disinterest- 


204  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

ediiess  were  fantasies  ?  everything  unreal  and  crossed  with 
silliness  and  affectation,  except  business  ?  He  looked  down 
the  car  along  the  two  ranges  of  well-dressed,  sleek,  smart 
merchants  and  lawyers  and  men  of  the  commercial  world, 
and  it  seemed  likely  enough. 

The  hours  of  office-work  crept.  He  bent  over  his  figures, 
striving  to  find  in  them  that  interest  they  had  once  con 
tained  when  he  deemed  them  the  piers  of  the  bridge  to  the 
great  things.  What  trivialities  they  were,  and  how  they 
absorbed  a  man  and  left  no  room  for  thought  upon  the 
verities!  He  despised  the  continual  strain  of  the  mind  on 
the  mere  means  of  livelihood.  Was  he  never  to  concern 
himself  with  those  basal  truths  in  which  his  self  and  his 
gain  had  no  place,  but  which  were  the  realities  after  all  ? 

Russell  P.  Andrus  and  another  successful  gentleman 
had  a  little  conversation  in  Julian's  room.  They  were 
awaiting  Gay,  and  they  easily  dropped  into  that  American 
talk  concerning  the  news  of  the  day.  A  disastrous  accident 
had  occurred  in  mid-ocean  and  the  morning  papers  were 
columned  with  it. 

"It  shows  the  progress  of  civilization," began  Andrus, in 
the  meditative-complacent-congratulatory  strain  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  "  that  the  whole  world  should  know  of 
it  within  twenty-four  hours  ;  and  certainly  men  were  never 
so  united  in  brotherhood  as  now,  when  the  news  sends  a 
sympathetic  thrill  through  every  community." 

"  How  true !  Twenty  years  ago  it  would  have  been  im 
possible.  The  world  is  advancing.  I  tell  you,  Andrus,  our 
sons  will  see  Europe  with  American  ideas,  and  they'll  do 
business  with  the  Congo  niggers,  as  we  do  with  India," 
responded  the  stranger. 

"Yes,  yes,"  laughed  Andrus,  "the  Prince  of  Wales  will 
have  to  earn  his  living  yet,  and  we'll  see  such  progress  as'll 
make  good  business-men  out  of  the  dukes  and  counts." 

All  the  New  England  in  Julian  that  made  possible  Con- 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  205 

cord  and  her  mode  of  life,  all  the  artistic  and  intellectual 
nature  of  the  man,  rose  in  protest  against  this  commercial, 
this  bourgeois  (for  bourgeois  it  was,  even  if  lacquered 
with  millionaire-wash)  idea  of  the  universe  and  of  society. 
To  these  great  merchants,  the  business-men  of  Wall  Street, 
history  and  law  and  war  and  great  men  meant  but  a  prepa- ' 
ration  of  the  world,  in  order  that  they  might  trade.  Trade 
was  the  standard  of  civilization  to  these  modern  Carthagin 
ians.  Humanity — its  infinite  toil,  its  divine  genius,  its 
passion  and  its  pathetic  mistakes,  its  inordinate  vanity,  its 
sublime  resignations,  its  fateful  story,  were  but  a  prelim 
inary  consecration  to  the  high  calling  of  exchange;  and  all 
else  was  to  be  considered  as  folly,  except  willingness  and 
condition  to  engage  in  commerce.  To  the  young  man  at 
his  desk  the  two  business-men  shrunk  up,  crumpled  like 
burnt  paper  before  this  withering  thought.  And  Gay,  his 
old  ideal !  For  a  moment  there  in  the  Wall  Street  office,  in 
the  presence  of  these  two  generous  livers  and  successful 
business-men,  over  his  financial  papers,  in  that  dry  and  cal 
culating  atmosphere,  there  rose  before  the  youth  a  picture 
of  the  race,  its  momentous  history,  the  rise  and  fall  of 
social  orders,  the  sovereignty  and  decay  of  divers  ideals, 
religions  and  their  grandeur,  art  and  its  beauty,  poetries 
and  their  passion,  truth  and  its  half-seen  visions — all  that 
is  grand  and  terrible  and  lovely  in  humanity,  in  its  heart 
and  its  abortive  progress.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  that, 
and  the  blinding  conviction  smote  him  that  thought  alone 
was  worthy  man,  the  only  thing  that  should  consume  a 
man,  the  one  thing  great  and  everlasting.  These  men 
about  him,  what  contemptible  manikins,  mere  phenomena, 
mere  little  concentrations  of  force  !  He  asked  himself  how 
Gay  could  have  ever  seemed  to  him  extraordinary  or  god 
like.  He  wondered  that  this  city  had  oppressed  him. 
Bah  !  what  rattletoys  of  The  Supreme  Thought  were  they ! 
He  left  the  office  at  four  o'clock.  There  was  a  dinner 


206  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

that  night,  at  which  he  was  expected.  He  must  go  to  his 
rooms  and  dress. 

A  light  snow  lay  on  the  pavements,  covering  the  dirt  of 
the  city,  as  an  angel's  garment  might  clothe  a  leper's  disease. 
The  dim  December  light  lent  a  bluish  tinge  to  everything 
and  added  to  the  very  purity  of  the  snow.  The  Street  was 
unusually  silent,  and  the  young  man  walked  up  it  in  a  half 
dream.  All  his  old  ideals  had  come  back  to  him.  Trinity, 
its  snowy  buttresses  and  its  white-capped  tombstones, 
seemed  set  there  to  mock  at  men  and  their  works.  He 
emerged  from  Wall  Street,  and  he  felt  happy  to  throw  off 
the  sinister  shadowa  of  her  cliff-like  buildings.  He  made 
for  the  Elevated  station. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  platform  among  the  waiting 
crowd;  he  was  unconscious  of  any  bodily  motion.  He 
stopped  mechanically  before  the  illustrated  newspapers 
tacked  up  about  the  news-stand.  There  was  one  picture, 
the  holiday  first  page  of  a  weekly  paper.  A  winter  back 
ground  of  white  snow  and  sombre  evergreens,  a  figure  of  a 
Puritan  girl,  tall,  draped  in  the  severe  simple  dress  of  her 
times,  a  wide  bonnet  shading  the  face,  a  bare  white  hand 
holding  a  sprig  of  holly-berries — that  was  all;  but  it  was  a 
poet's  thought,  an  artist's  study.  The  pure,  pale,  passion 
less  face,  the  sad,  great,  meek  eyes  that  looked  and  looked, 
the  peace  of  it  and  the  rest  in  it,  a  soul  and  its  veil! 

What  a  slight  cause  works  an  effect  in  a  susceptible 
nature!  The  beauty  of  Puritanism,  of  the  North,  of  aus 
terity,  and  of  rest,  were  in  that  engraving.  It  spoke  to 
him  of  Exmoor.  He  thought  of  Milton,  of  the  beautiful 
Elizabeth,  wife  of  the  great  Protector,  of  Miles  Standish, 
and  the  love  of  John  Alden.  The  snow-shrouded  hills  of 
New  England  and  the  stately  mistress  of  his  father's  house, 
the  quiet  church  under  the  blue-toned  sky,  and  the  tran 
quil  Margaret — these  came  back  to  him. 

He  looked  at  the  picture  again;   he  turned  to  buy  the 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  207 

paper — but  no,  that  would  be  a  desecration.  He  carried 
her  image  into  the  cars  with  him.  In  imagination  he  re 
created  her  as  she  had  lived  in  her  time,  in  Plymouth  or 
in  Salem.  He  saw  her  at  home,  driving  her  spinning-wheel, 
with  white  deft  fingers  in  motion.  He  saw  her  bending 
over  a  psalm  in  the  great  Bible  in  the  flickering  blaze  of 
the  huge  fireplace.  He  saw  her  in  her  room  under  the 
great  beams  of  the  roof,  unclasping  her  waist-band  and 
gazing  half  across  her  shoulder  out  into  the  still  winter 
night,  the  soft  neck  curved  half  away.  Somehow,  it  seemed 
to  him  beautiful,  the  cold  of  the  north  country,  and  the 
comfort  of  her  simple  living  with  her  dogmas  and  dearth 
of  excitement,  but  after  all,  with  her  spiritual  peace,  such 
as  he  had  not  found  in  the  stress  and  crush,  in  the  crowds 
that  urge  each  other  up  and  down  the  streets  of  the  city  of 
desire  and  sensation.' 

****** 

Julian  sat  down  to  the  luxurious  dinner-table.  The  ser 
vants  glided  about  noiselessly;  without  friction,  without 
any  of  the  little  jars  that  grate  on  fastidious  tastes,  things 
proceeded.  Elegant  dress-shirts,  sumptuous  toilets,  lined 
the  board;  jewels  blazed  from  breasts  and  shone  on  the 
white  fingers  of  the  ladies.  He  drank  scented  wines  from 
thin  glasses  light  as  eggshells,  brittle  and  brilliant. 

The  lights,  the  low  tones,  the  perfumes,  the  high-backed 
chair  in  which  he  sat— he  experienced  that  elegant  sense 
of  superiority,  of  aristocracy,  of  a  marshalled  luxury,  which 
tickles  the  palate  of  our  self-consciousness  and  would 
genialize  John  Knox. 

As  he  grew  accustomed  to  the  novelty;  his  sensation  gave 
place  to  perception,  and  corning,  as  he  did,  from  the  con 
templation  of  a  moral  beauty,  he  began,  in  the  pauses  of 
his  conversation,  to  make  observations  and  draw  distinc 
tions,  like  one  steeped  all  his  life  in  such  luxury,  and  hardly 
such  as  he  a  month  ago,  the  country  youth  of  high  think- 


208  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

ing  and  low  living,  plunged  suddenly  into  Capuan  pleasures 
and  blinded  by  the  glamours  of  wealth,  would  have  re 
tained  enough  of  coolness  to  make. 

The  very  commonplace  and  stupid  interchange  of  vocab 
ularies — for  it  was  not  conversation — with  his  right-hand 
dowager  duchess  and  his  left-hand  debutante,  left  him 
room  to  survey  the  table. 

In  some  way  there  was  no  mirage  created  by  the  broad 
cloth  and  fastidious  linen  of  the  gentlemen,  by  the  jewels 
and  heavy  tapestry  gowns  of  the  women,  by  the  plate  scin 
tillating  under  the  glowing  light.  The  true  features  of 
each  person,  distinct  and  apart  from  clothes,  stood  out  to 
him;  the  naked  animals,  with  the  primal  passions  and  bot 
tom  nature,  peeped  out  of  high  collars  and  flowered  out  of 
decollete  waists. 

Gold,  china,  glass,  clothes,  gems,  perfumes,  toilets,  soft 
inflections,  little  ton-affectations,  the  distinctive  manners 
of  the  snob  and  the  plutocrat — what  were  they  ?  Nothing 
but  encasements,  accidentals;  nothing  but  formulas,  shells, 
husks,  taken  on  to  attire  the  bareness,  to  be  stripped  off 
in  a  score  of  years  to  become  the  habiliments  of  their  suc 
cessors.  The  young  man  in  that  hour  of  his  life  fought 
himself  free  from  his  generation's  idea  of  what  follows  on 
a  man,  its  subserviency  to  the  tag  attached;  he  sought 
again  for  the  man,  the  real  man,  the  true  thing.  He  parted 
the  clothes  from  the  body,  flesh  from  the  bones,  the  carcass 
from  the  soul. 

He  looked  at  the  dowager  duchess  on  his  right  hand. 
White,  leathery,  wrinkled  skin ;  a  plebeian  complexion  in 
herited  from  some  hard-working  mother  and  bleached  by 
indoor  life  of  no  exercise  and  an  infinitude  of  laziness;  a 
great  burly  frame  suggestive  of  a  complete  establishment 
of  such  feminine  charms  as  solidity  implies,  and  plenty  at 
that;  big  false  puffs  of  powdered  gray  hair,  battlement- 
ing  the  vacant  crown.  She  breathed  hard  and  pirouetted 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  209 

her  thick  neck  with  difficulty,  to  stare  at  one  with  blank 
fish-eyes  that  excited  curiosity  as  to  whether  they  had  any 
light  in  them.  Aside  from  her  dress  and  her  shape  and 
her  snobbishness,  what  aristocratic  flavor  had  this  white 
leather  bag,  such  a  one  as  might  be  seen  any  day  in  Fulton 
Market?  • 

He  turned  to  his  left-hand  slim  debutante.  Straight 
American  features  that  might  suit  equally  well  a  servant-girl 
or  a  princess,  so  little  personality  dwelt  in  them ;  the  bright 
complexion  of  a  blonde;  the  yellow  hair  of  insignificance 
and  inoffensiveness — by  dint  of  her  father's  dollars  she 
passed  for  a  beauty.  He  noticed  the  hands  that  held  her 
knife  and  fork  were  red,  as  if  swollen  with  a  rush  of  blood; 
but  he  did  not  know  her  maid  had  supported  her  arms 
aloft  for  half  an  hour  that  afternoon,  though  the  feat  had 
not  the  success  of  Moses';  nor  did  he  know  that  at  last  she 
had  flopped  them  down  disconsolately,  and  snapped  to  her 
maid,  "  Get  out,  you  stupid  beast !  my  hands  are  lobsters, 
born  boiled  at  that."  Even  without  such  knowledge,  Julian 
saw  in  her  mouth  but  a  food-receptacle,  and  in  her  figure 
a  fashion-scaffolding  to  lay  rich  dresses  on.  He  glanced 
across  the  table  beyond  the  cold,  high  face  of  Saxton. 
His  eyes  followed  the  line  of  white  shirt-bosoms,  placarded 
between  the  ornamental  busts,  like  panels  between  flower 
pots.  He  observed  Colonel  Hughes,  a  great  overfed  blonde, 
whose  tender  flesh  oozed  out  over  his  stiff  collar;  the  round, 
florid  face  with  the  little  deep-set  eyes  and  their  piggish- 
ness,  the  broad  crown  with  the  stiff  bristles  sticking  up  as 
in  a  field  the  glebe  stands,  each  separate  hair  detached  and 
exact. 

Next  the  Colonel  sat  a  little  tremulous  lady.  When 
addressed,  she  turned  to  her  interlocutor  with  a  miniature 
flutter  of  nervousness  and  alarm.  Her  husband  had  left 
her  a  great  fortune,  even  according  to  New  York  measure; 
but  rumor  whispered  in  the  streets  that  she  had  suffered  tor- 


210  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

tures  in  her  married  life.  She  was  given  to  little  feminine 
stories  about  the  men  of  note  who  had  gathered  twenty 
years  ago  at  her  celebrated  father's  hospitable  board.  She 
was  fond  of  ministers  and  would  snuggle  up  close  to  some 
young  divine,  as  she  was  doing  now,  with  diminutive  pat 
ronizing  insinuations,  and  repeat  how  Seward  had  folded 
his  napkin  in  such  wise  and  how  she  had  once  seen  Lincoln 
lift  his  knife  to  his  lantern  jaws.  The  verdict  of  the 
woman  of  society  upon  great  originals  is  microscopic — wit 
ness  Marie  Antoinette's  on  Mirabeau,  and  Mme.  de  Eemu- 
sat's  on  Napoleon. 

Verily  the  Puritans  had  arisen  out  of  the  grave,  and  the 
moral  spirit  of  his  New  England  ancestors  looked  out 
through  his  eyes  on  that  night  and  took  note  of  the 
world. 

The  flaunt  of  the  dresses,  the  blaze  of  crimsons,  the  deli 
cate  mauves,  the  imperial  blues,  the  magnificent  circle  of 
color  and  gorgeous  fronts,  the  sweet-scented  air  and  the 
renaissance  urns  bursting  into  flowers,  rare  orchids  and 
tropical  blooms — all  the  wine  and  glory  of  life,  the  tin 
gling  sense-effects  and  exquisite  harmonies  of  hue  and 
form,  which  appealed  to  the  Venice  in  him,  passed  him  by 
as  an  idle  smoke.  The  glint  of  the  delicate  glasses,  the 
gleam  of  the  satins,  the  soft  fall  of  intricate  laces,  masses 
of  ruddy-tinted  or  raven  hair  thrust  through  with  gold  and 
diamonds,  the  countless  folds  of  heavy  draperies — all  were 
but  properties,  adjuncts,  tissue  of  matter. 

And  matter,  the  transient,  the  garment,  the  sheath,  fell 
away  from  those  sumptuous  women  and  those  sensualistic 
worldlings.  He  pierced  to  the  centre,  to  their  shrivelled 
souls.  A  dress  was  a  dress.  Gold  was  a  metal.  Beauty 
was  flesh,  and  goes  with  years.  A  wealthy  man  was  a  man 
with  a  long  tail  and  a  great  lot  of  stuff  attached.  A  fashion 
able  woman  was  a  woman  with  the  world's  halo  nailed 
above  her  head.  What  was  the  wealth  of  that  man? 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  211 

That  which  he  is.  And  what  the  halo  of  that  woman  ? 
The  crystallized  effulgence  of  her  tenderness  and  of  her 
heart. 

And  Vivian  sparkled  across  the  board,  keeping  a  gene 
ral  in  a  roar  by  her  winning  sallies.  Half  the  men  at 
that  table  had  their  eyes  on  her.  The  miniature  and  ex 
quisite  creature  was  like  a  bird  that  plants  itself  on  the 
rim.  of  a  stone  basin  after  its  bath,  and  plumes  itself  with  a 
sense  of  its  brilliant  plumage,  cocking  its  conceited  little 
head  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other,  the  better  to  ex 
hibit  itself  to  itself.  The  dainty  bit  of  animate  flesh  with 
smooth,  rounded,  short  arms,  her  soft,  short  neck,  her  kiss- 
able  cheeks  and  rosy  mouth, — the  limited  little  thing  had 
a  supreme  satisfaction  in  herself,  and  she  laughed  and 
showed  her  white  teeth  to  the  men;  she  amused  her  neigh 
bors  with  her  infantile  caprices.  Was  not  she  herself  lovely 
and  the  world  altogether  delicious  ?  But  Julian  hated  her 
self-sufficiency.  He  hated  the  limitations  her  egoism  im 
posed;  he  hated  her  narrow  judgments  on  men  and  the 
world,  on  Saxton,  on  the  end  of  life.  He  writhed  under 
the  knowledge  of  her  certain  contempt,  if  she  could  but 
discern  the  real  nature  in  him,  the  Senancour  and  the 
amor  intellectualis,  which  he  had  concealed  from  her. 
And  this  was  the  woman  he  had  desired  to  mate!  It  would 
have  been  a  second  tyranny,  something  like  her  sister's. 
All  the  natural  independence  of  his  spirit  burst  into  hate 
of  her,  her  artificial  type  of  beauty,  her  narrow  brain,  her 
insufferable  conceit.  "Damn  her!"  he  muttered.  Then 
to  his  hate  there  came  a  scorn.  After  all,  how  insignificant 
she  and  her  kind  were!  And  all  the  riches  of  human 
thought,  the  treasures  of  literature,  the  profound  joys  and 
sorrows  of  the  imaginative  free  spirit  dwarfed  her  and 
money.  Bah!  She  was  immensely  stupid,  so  dense,  so 
utterly  little. 

He  went  to  his  rooms  and  laid  off  his  evening  dress.  "  To 


212  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

be  free,"  that  was  the  constant  beat  in  Julian's  mind.  As 
Keyes  had  said,  that  was  the  height  and  climax  of  man 
hood.  He  put  on  his  business  suit  and  packed  his  bag.  It 
was  Saturday  night,  and  there  was  a  late  train  for  New 
England.  He  could  get  into  Exmoor  Sunday  morning. 

He  sat  down  in»the  car,  with  his  elbow  on  the  window- 
sill  and  his  chin  in  his  hand.  The  moon  was  going  down, 
but  its  last  hour  made  the  night  a  radiant  tissue,  that 
half  revealed  the  landscape.  How  beautiful  it  was!  As 
with  Mrs.  Ballard  years  before  on  that  night  of  her  travel 
Boston  ward  s  to  meet  her  dead,  so  the  train  unloosed 
Julian  from  the  immediate,  and  flung  him  out  of  his 
accustomed  orbit  to  the  contemplation  of  life  in  the 
aggregate.  The  revolving  dance  of  the  wheels  on  the  rail, 
the  rush  of  dim  landscape  past  the  train,  the  projectile 
speed  of  the  vehicle  which  carried  him,  forced  upon  him 
the  universal  as  against  his  own  individuality. 

America  rose  up,  the  continent  between  two  oceans.  He 
pictured  her  aspect,  as  she  lay  beneath  the  orb  of  the  all- 
seeing  moon,  half  veiled  in  the  shadow  of  night.  Her 
great  lakes  shone  like  immense  plates  of  liquid  silver;  her 
rivers  poured  along  in  tawny  strings,  meandering  through 
the  basins;  her  mountains  sat  based  in  broud  glooms  with 
white  summits  gleaming  in  the  moonlight,  like  the  up 
lifted  sabre-points  of  charging  cavalry.  The  desolate  hills 
of  New  England  and  their  waste  winter  barrenness;  the 
Appalachian  valleys  clogged  with  furnace-smoke  and  lurid 
with  tongues  of  flaming  chimneys;  the  broad  expanse  of 
the  central  basin,  its  farms,  its  gleaming  wells  of  natural 
gas,  its  mighty  Mississippi;  the  plains  of  the  high  plateau, 
its  droves  of  shuddering  cattle  driven  before  the  polar 
cyclone,  like  ships  with  sails  before  a  tempest,  on  to  death 
and  awful  hunger;  the  South,  its  warmth,  its  fields  of 
cotton,  its  oranges  and  its  primeval  trees,  cypresses  and 
disconsolate  pines;  the  California  slope,  its  grand  Sierras 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  213 

and  the  landlocked  Bay  of  San  Francisco — all  this  extent 
under  the  high  heavens  and  cold  stars  of  infinite  space! 
And  on  that  map  were  points  of  lurid  light  that  struck  up 
as  through  a  dust-cloud,  and  these  were  cities;  he  counted 
them,  New  York,  and  Boston,  and  Cleveland,  and  Chicago, 
and  St.  Louis,  and  Minneapolis  and  San  Francisco,  and 
New  Orleans  and  Cincinnati  and  Washington  and  Balti 
more  and  Philadelphia;  under  those  luminous  sheets  of 
their  own  dust  and  light,  men  and  women  slept  or  revelled 
or  cursed  or  prayed,  or  schemed,  or  sinned.  He  saw  trails 
of  shooting  lights  and  illumined  smoke;  they  were  trains, 
the  many  shuttles  that  shot  in  and  out  the  woof  of  this  con 
tinental  nation;  he  saw  them  making  across  the  mountains 
and  the  plains,  piercing  into  towering  towns  and  connect 
ing  pyramidal  furnaces;  lacing  together  that  girdle  of 
smoking  piles  men  call  cities;  thundering  through  the 
night.  He  pictured  the  humanity  under  and  within  it  all, 
swarms  asleep  and  awake,  toiling  and  squandering,  beauti 
ful  and  horrible;  some  of  them  living  statues,  cleansed 
and  polished  and  painted  fair,  and  some,  the  rats  of  the 
human  sewer,  big,  brown,  brawny,  ill-smelling,  with  carrion 
appetites  and  sinful  eyes. 

It  was  grand,  America  and  her  folk,  and  he  was  glad 
that  he  could  feel  it  in  some  measure;  he  felt  that  it  was 
worthy  a  man's  effort  and  his  time  to  endeavor  to  under 
stand  it  in  some  part.  He  repeated  Arnold's  stanza, — 

"  He  who  bath  watched,  not  shared,  the  strife 

Knows  how  the  day  hath  gone; 

He  only  lives  with  the  world's  life 

Who  hath  renounced  his  own." 

The  moon  descended ;  the  darkness  drew  her  robes  more 
closely  round  the  earth;  the  car  hurled  on  at  increasing 
pace,  making  for  the  Massachusetts  hills.  Manhattan 
smouldered  far  in  the  rear.  Julian  Clyde  was  glad  of  it; 


214          TUB  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

he  had  the  joy  of  a  prisoner  escaped,  and  he  loathed  that 
Babylon  where  life  had  beat  so  high  for  him  and  the  wave 
of  his  fate  had  seemed  to  kiss  the  pediments  of  success. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  MORAL  FAR  NIENTE. 

IN  the  library  of  the  Exmoor  house,  father  and  son 
talked  over  the  young  man's  home-coming. 

"  I  regret  that  you  have  determined  upon  this  course," 
Professor  Clyde  said,  in  conclusion.  "  It  goes  against  all 
my  plans,  to  tell  you  the  whole  truth." 

There  was  a  touch  of  remonstrance  in  his  voice. 

"Plans!  I  never  supposed  you  had  any  plans,"  Julian 
darted  back,  an  unconscious  sarcasm  in  his  manner. 

"  You  are  right  to  accuse  me  of  drifting,  for  I  have  been 
dead  to  the  world,  seemingly,  for  years.  Still  I  cherished 
the  hope  you  would  carry  my  name  into  the  ranks  of  the 
living  some  day.  Learning  in  itself  is  a  vanity  and  a 
weariness  to  the  flesh,  after  all.  I  am  disappointed.  You 
will  not  reconsider  your  decision  ?" 

The  scholar  urged  his  wish  with  wistful  eyes,  as  if  he 
could  not  bear  to  have  it  as  Julian  declared. 

"  So  you  feel  this  way,"  said  Julian.  "  I  didn't  suppose 
you  cared  a  rap.  You  say  this  was  always  your  desire. 
Well,  if  it  was,  if  you  wanted  an  active  man  of  me,  why 
didn't  you  put  me  into  the  swim  earlier  ?  Why  did  you 
turn  me  loose  among  your  books  and  drop  Plato  and  the 
Germans  in  my  way  ?  You  were  always  insisting  on  charac- 


THE  SHADOW  Of  THE  MILLIONAIRE.          215 

ter  and  the  personality  of  the  man,  as  opposed  to  mere 
material  success.  I  unconsciously  formed  an  ideal  of  man 
hood,  with  a  good  deal  of  Goethe  in  it  and  the  literary  con 
ceptions.  Why  did  you  permit  the  growth  of  this  ideal,  or 
any  ideals,  indeed,  if  you  meant  me  for  an  adroit  bargainer, 
an  astute  manipulator,  like  Mr.  Gay  ?  As  a  man,  in  intellect, 
in  scope  of  passion  and  sympathies,  he  is  a  mere  nothing. 
If  you  wanted  me  that,  why  did  you  give  me  so  much  ?" 

He  spoke  calmly,  nay,  coldly  and  solidly,  as  if  repeating 
a  legal  argument;  but  a  depth  of  bitterness  bubbled  up 
underneath  the  crust  of  restraint. 

Professor  Clyde  turned  on  his  son  with  a  wonder,  and, 
perhaps,  a  horror  too,  in  his  face.  He  surveyed  Julian 
long. 

"Is  there  a  conflict  in  you  too?"  the  scholar  gasped- 
"Ah,  I  had  hoped  the  double  demon  was  laid  to  rest.  I 
thought  your  generation  was  homogeneous  at  last.  And 
yet  why  not,  why  not  ?" 

He  looked  the  young  man's  face  over  again,  and  he  said, 
"  Yes,  yes,  it's  the  world  and  the  spirit,  the  desire  against 
the  intellect.  You  want  happiness  and  glory,  the  world's 
sunshine  and  the  cold  light  of  the  thinker's  truth.  They 
are  irreconcilables.  Well,  you  can  but  suffer." 

Mrs.  Lancaster  came  in  and  the  three  talked  till  dinner 
time,  'the  gossip  of  Exmoor  and  its  affairs.  Julian  learned 
Mrs.  Harris  had  got  a  new  baby;  that  Doctor  Ponder's 
health  Avas  giving  way;  that  Elaine  Browning  had  found 
her  Launcelot,  who  had  won  her  and  jilted  her.  All  the 
little  minutiae  of  provincial  life  came  up  and  rather  an 
noyed  him  than  otherwise.  They  told  him  about  the  new 
buildings  and  the  increase  of  students;  a  new  hotel  had 
started,  some  new  stores  had  opened  and  the  railroad  were 
to  build  a  commodious  station.  He  learned  of  Mrs.  Bal- 
lard,  how  she  had  governed  President  Pompes  and  how  she 
had  enjoyed  her  sway.  Had  it  been  rumored  him  that  she 


216  TIIE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

was  to  marry  Mr.  Gay  ?  And  did  he  know  that  she  had 
not  been  seen  by  any  one  for  over  a  month,  since  the  mil 
lionaire's  last  run  to  Exmoor?  She  had  those  dread 
ful  stupoi-s.  Poor  Margaret  goes  round  so  pale,  with  such 
sad  eyes;  the  girl  actually  bears  the  whole  burden  of  the 
house  and  guards  her  mother.  The  physician  had  whis 
pered  there  were  symptoms  of  softening  of  the  brain, 
or  some  waste  of  brain-tissue.  Mrs.  Lancaster  dwelt  per 
haps  a  little  lingeringly  on  the  gossip  about  the  fall  of  the 
widow  Ballard. 

****** 

The  snow  fell  silently  down,  weaving  in  the  gray  twilight 
the  white  shroud  of  the  earth.  Lights  gleamed  through 
the  flakes  with  wan  glimmers.  Gradually  the  covering  was 
woven,  and  so  softly  that  the  work  seemed  uncanny,  weird, 
as  if  a  host  of  swift  persistent  spirits  of  perversity,  with  in 
cessant  motion,  were  swathing  the  corpse  of  a  barren  world, 
and  anon  would  heave  it  into  its  grave,  out  into  the  un 
fathomable  spaces.  The  flakes  fell,  but  one  could  only  see 
them  fall.  They  fell  and  builded  themselves,  and  yet  one 
could  only  note  their  presence;  they  fitted  atop  of  each 
other  without  sound,  without  friction,  like  the  great  stones 
of  Solomon's  Temple. 

Julian  sat  in  the  library  without  light,  his  chin  sup 
ported  on  his  hand,  the  hair  of  the  Venetian  painters 
thrown  back  from  his  brow.  He  gazed  out  at  the  impend 
ing  night.  He  had  been  reading  all  that  Sunday  afternoon, 
in  his  old  way,  reading  and  thinking,  or  rather  feeling,  let 
ting  his  mind  drift  in  revery,  as  a  weed  drifts  in  the  sea. 
The  despair  of  the  struggle  was  upon  him  now,  and  in  pro 
portion  as  a  life  of  gain  grew  gruesome  to  him,  so  the 
ideals  of  his  boyhood  started  back  from  his  grasp,  swung  off 
over  the  gulf  of  unattainability,  and  jeered  at  him  from 
the  vacant  air. 

Somehow  the  quiet  of  that  day  in  his  father's  house  had 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  217 

thrown  the  colors  of  his  last  ambitions  into  flaring,  inde 
cent  light.  The  harmony  and  peace  of  this  simple  exist 
ence  brought  out  the  discord  in  the  other;  the  rooms  with 
their  refined  tone  and  their  humble  height  seemed  truer  and 
more  sincere  than  the  great,  crowded  chambers  of  the  Gay 
house,  with  the  millionaire  profusion.  The  opium  of  peace, 
of  Arcadia,  of  mild  melancholy;  the  irresponsibility  of 
drifting  on  the  tides,  of  a  few  settled  dogmas  for  a  good 
self-directing  boat,  of  innocent  animal  pleasures,  of  domes 
tic  affection,  and  the  timid  steal  of  Priscilla-hands  about 
the  temples — they  seemed  delicious,  choice  treasures  pe 
culiar  to  Exmoor  existence  and  not  to  be  lightly  laid  aside. 
Their  imagined  beauty  floated  in  upon  his  soul  and  pos 
sessed  it.  And  if  he  thus  surrendered  himself  and  longed 
no  more  to  obtrude  himself  upon  the  world,  and  sank  all 
the  lust  for  action  and  power  and  the  vanity  of  a  Vivian- 
love  in  the  curbed  well  of  quiet  and  revery  and  home,  his 
ideals  and  the  struggle  for  their  attainment  dissolved  like 
wise.  They,  too,  entailed  suffering  and  anguish  on  the 
possessor.  He  would  let  them  slip.  They  were  as  costly 
as  the  world.  Let  them  go  !  He  entertained  regret  for 
them,  a  regret  whose  experience  was  a  melancholy  pleasure, 
a  lotus-eater's  incense  of  sorrow.  Ethereal  things  passing 
like  clouds  above  him,  beautiful,  evasive,  impossible  to 
touch,  most  futile  the  attempt  to  cage  them !  They  were 
like  the  smiles  of  dead  women,  like  the  kisses  one  would 
fain  shower  on  the  lips  of  Titian's  grandest  dames.  No,  he 
would  lie  upon  the  sands  of  this  sombre  tranquil  Exmoor 
shore,  and  nurse  his  indolence  and  ideality,  avoiding  the 
disgusting  things,  wishing  at  times  that  he  might  have  been 
more  energetic,  more  brutal ;  but  yet  believing  in  the  bot 
tom  of  his  soul  that  ideals  are  better  dreamed  of  than 
precipitated  into  reality;  content  to  watch  the  signal-sky 
which  tells  how  the  distant  battle  goes. 

The  gray  deepened  into  black  and  still  he  gazed  unseeing, 


218  THE  8HADVW  Off  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

out  upon  the  snow.  Let  him  succumb  to  the  opium,  this 
man  of  giaut  forces.  Let  him  nod  his  head  in  the  fumes 
of  this  delicate  melancholy — this  intellect,  predetermined, 
by  the  law  of  its  being,  to  probing  for  the  reality.  Let  him 
wrap  himself  gently  and  lave  his  limbs  with  the  ointments 
of  repose — this  ambition  with  its  gaunt  eyes  and  untiring 
verve.  Let  him  steep  his  heart  in  simples  and  box  his  in 
finite  pulses  of  desire  with  some  virgin  soul,  pure  and  un 
aspiring — this  heart  with  its  genius-fire,  with  its  bounding 
aspirations,  its  intolerant  impetuosity.  The  lotus-fruit 
was  not  for  Ulysses,  nor  yet  for  this  man. 

The  church-bell  rang  within  the  falling  snow;  the  long 
swing  sent  the  sound  across  the  house-roofs;  the  air-waves 
trembled  above  the  clear  ice  of  the  brook,  stole  amid  the 
spired  fir-trees  in  the  yard,  smote  upon  the  dulled  senses  of 
the  dreamer.  His  native  energy  waked  sufficiently  to  urge 
him  to  go  out;  he  thought  to  seek  the  church,  where  he 
went  as  a  boy.  Kebellion  was  all  gone  out  to-night,  and  he 
remembered  the  beautiful  things  about  the  Sunday-night 
meeting,  and  a  deep  yearning  came  upon  him  to  experience 
it  all  again.  He  would  drain  the  opiate  to  the  dregs  and 
drown  the  numb  pain  at  the  heart.  He  would  soak  his  be 
ing  in  tranquillity,  in  that  sweet  religious  melancholy;  he 
would  cling  to  his  faith  in  the  old  things. 

The  man  was  half  in  dream.  His  overcoat  seemed  shadowy 
to  him,  and  he  put  on  his  hat  as  if  it  were  a  shape  of  air. 
He  sauntered  from  the  door.  The  earth  his  foot  struck 
seemed  impalpable.  He  did  not  feel  the  outer  things.  He 
almost  reeled  down  the  walk.  All  wore  the  aspect  of  a 
dream,  for  he  suffused  every  object  with  his  mood.  A 
melancholy,  sweet  and  stupefying,  hung  an  atmosphere 
about  the  great  tree-trunks,  seemed  instinct  in  every  soft 
pattering  flake  that  settled  on  his  face. 

Down  the  street  where  the  leafless  trees  crossed  their 
arms  like  fleshless  wicker-work  of  bones  he  went.  The 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  219 

sombre  houses  with  their  one  light  half  darkened  hy  the 
clustering  snow  upon  the  window-panes,  the  wan  flicker  of 
the  street-lamps,  the  silent  street  and  the  enveloping  damp, 
that  made  the  air  thick  and  a  protection,  a  fluid  rather 
than  a  gas — all  had  effect  on  his  tranced  nerves.  The 
thought  of  death  came  to  him  as  a  quiet  consummation,  a 
gradual  slipping  away  into  a  Nirvana  of  unconsciousness 
and  rest. 

Yet  underneath  this  death-in-life  mood  of  the  nature  so 
ardent  but  yesterday,  like  the  eyes  of  a  demon  in  a  shroud, 
lay  in  wait  himself  watching  for  himself.  He  was  conscious 
that  it  was  a  mood  even  while  he  lived  in  it,  for  that  deeper 
self  within  had  watched  the  birth  and  growth  of  this  lan 
guor,  understood  and  pampered  it,  and  silently  awaited  till 
its  consummation  should  approach.  It  divined  the  result. 
The  subtle  consciousness,  deftly  buried  within  our  un 
consciousness,  weighs  the  hair-weight  of  our  glooms  and 
joys  and  has  estimated,  when  we  ourselves  are  in  suit  at  the 
feet  of  destiny,  the  final  force  and  consequence  of  our  pas 
sions. 

The  doleful  chant  of  a  hymn  came  to  him  from  the 
church.  "Good/'  he  muttered,  "they're  singing;  I  can 
slip  in  under  the  cover."  He  opened  the  door  softly  and 
stole  to  his  old  boy-seat  far  back,  where  he  had  sat  so  many 
evenings  in  line  with  Margaret's  face,  the  pure  face  that 
had  filled  his  strange  boyhood's  need  of  devotion.  He  put 
his  head  within  his  hands  and  opened  the  gates  of  his  spirit 
to  the  influences  of  the  place.  He  did  not  listen  to  the 
words  of  the  minister  or  clearly  distinguish  the  prayers  of 
the  suppliants;  he  only  heard  the  monotony  of  the  voices 
and  felt  the  human  contact,  and  his  tired,  much-fought- 
over  soul  drank  from  the  place  its  peace,  as  a  dusty  battle 
field  greedily  drinks  the  rain  the  thunder  of  its  cannon  has 
gathered  together.  Charity  seemed  a  good  thing,  the  only 
possible  thing;  righteousness  burned  before  him  a  holy 


220  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

flame;  he  felt  a  yearning  to  throw  himself  back  on  the  great 
idea  of  a  Saviour,  a  Comforter.  He  would  loose  himself  from 
responsibility,  from  self-reproach;  he  would  heap  upon  the 
shoulders  of  Christ  the  queries  and  dissatisfactions  and 
shortcomings  of  his  life.  He  had  tried  struggle,  and  he  was 
through  with  it.  He  felt  like  reposing  on  the  spirit  that 
emanated  from  this  prayer-room,  just  as  one  lies  down  upon 
a  bed.  He  was  in  that  mood  that  makes  fine  natures  con 
verts  to  the  Catholic  Church. 

All  the  while  his  inner  monitor  apprehended  the  futil 
ity  of  his  emotion.  To-morrow  the  intellect  would  regain 
its  dominance,  to-morrow  the  senses  would  pulse  with  pas 
sionate  blood,  and  desire  and  effort  would  be  reborn.  No 
man  can  carry  my  responsibilities,  and  Palestine  and  its 
sacrifice  cannot  be  vicarious.  Between  me  and  the  future 
stands  an  empty  space,  which  I  am  to  fill  by  myself.  I 
only  am  the  artisan. 

He  looked  up  at  last  at  the  familiar  place :  the  same  girl- 
profile  was  there.  A  tide  of  pure  affection  and  perfect 
trust  went  out  to  her.  He  regarded  that  face  for  a  long 
time;  he  saw  in  it  sure  love,  steady  virtue,  domestic  ease, 
happiness,  perhaps.  His  mind  ran  out  along  the  rails  of 
his  future.  Quiet  work,  lowly  unambitious  motives,  mod 
erate  joys — they  hold  their  charm,  they  are  the  ideal  dream 
of  many  in  this  electric  generation.  Mornings  welcomed 
as  advents  of  an  even  and  not  unnatural  duty,  afternoons 
of  revery  and  reading,  the  long  winter  evenings  in  the 
great  colonial  house,  a  mother's  serenity  and  nobility, — the 
picture  soothed. 

Underneath  the  protest  still  !  He  knew  this  girl;  his 
mind  had  followed  up  all  the  lines  of  her  being  ;  he  knew 
the  forces  that  made  up  her  nature  ;  he  knew  the  mould 
into  which  her  plastic  youtn  had  been  crushed  ;  he  knew 
the  compressions  her  mother  had  laid  upon  her  and  the  de 
formities  of  her  education.  Said  the  inner  self, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  2il 

"  You  wish  to  burn  your  bridge  of  retreat,  for  you  are 
weary  of  deciding  ;  you  long  for  repose,  even  if  it  is  found 
in  stagnation.  You  would  make  a  bolt  at  fate,  because 
choice  is  intolerable.  Yet  at  bottom  you  understand  your 
destiny  ;  you  know  that  if  you  cage  your  spirit  and  your 
action  v/ithin  the  frail  lathe-work  of  a  mouldering  exist 
ence,  thwarted  powers  would  make  reprisals." 

To  which  replied  the  desire  of  his  mood, 

"Disgust  of  turmoil  and  of  effort,  a  sickening  of  respon 
sibility,  a  horror  of  action,  assail  me.  Why  expend  myself 
on  details;  why  struggle  towards  the  gloom,  the  sooner  to 
embrace  it  ?  Here  is  peace  offered,  here  is  the  purity  of 
holy  love,  the  comfort  of  a  mediocre  career,  the  soft  joys 
of  revery,  the  sweet  distillations  of  a  torpid  existence,  of 
melancholy  shadows.  Take  it— decide  your  fate — seize 
with  an  effort,  and  there  shall  be  an  end  of  effort  forever." 

Then  the  inner  man  responded, 

"Fool,  to  cajole  your  imagination  in  this  way!  Ennui 
lurks  within  the  simple  things,  and  the  monotony  of  such 
existence  would  press  your  tortured  nerves.  You  have 
already  known  such  a  life,  its  train  of  interminable  small 
evils  and  trivial  inconveniences,  the  failing  of  the  furnace- 
fire,  a  hole  in  your  stocking,  the  smell  of  the  laundry  in 
the  dining-room — things  more  formidable  than  the  great 
breakers  of  human  strength!  You  could  wrestle  more 
willingly  against  despair,  against  the  despotism  of  the  Phi 
listine,  against  the  indifference  and  heat  of  a  great  city, 
than  endure  the  gnat-bites  of  mean  pains  crowded  into  a 
monotonous  life.  Eebellion,  disgust  would"  follow;  you 
would  learn  to  regret  the  Puritan  character  of  your  wife 
and  her  devoted  maternity.  The  conception  is  an  anach 
ronism,  it  comes  from  the  state  of  your  nerves." 

Some  one  whom  he  could  not  see  was  up  speaking;  a 
classic  phrase  caught  the  dreamer's  ear.  He  heard  a  voice 
in  clear  tones  saying,  "  There  is  the  Hellenic  mythus  we 


222  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

all  know,  if  not  by  book,  then  by  experience.  For  the 
Sirens  have  chanted  to  us  all  of  pleasure  and  of  the  sweet 
ness  of  sin.  And  the  ancients  tell  us  two  men  alone  es 
caped  them,  the  one  by  craft,  the  other  by  conquering  song. 
The  ship  crawled  upon  its  oars  past  the  enchanted  isles. 
The  songs  of  the  sisters,  ravishing,  beautiful,  flouted 
across  the  floor  of  the  sea,  kissing  the  waves  and  caressing 
the  ears  of  the  sailors.  But  not  a  rower  leapt  from  his 
bench  and  the  steady  sweep  of  the  great  oars  was  main 
tained.  Only  upon  the  deck,  bound  to  the  mast,  the  mas 
ter  Ulysses,  the  weaver  of  wiles,  writhed  in  his  bonds.  He 
had  stuffed  the  ears  of  his  companions  with  wax  and  they 
had  tied  him  fast,  so  that  he  could  not  go.  This  is  the 
other  story.  The  Argo  bears  down  upon  the  isles  with 
flashing  blades.  High  on  the  stern  stands  a  man  with 
golden  hair  and  the  laurel  crown  about  his  head.  The  en 
chanted  siren-song  comes  over  the  waters,  sensuous,  eva 
sive,  suggesting  all  desires  and  the  fairest  sins.  Bootes,  the 
fairest  of  men,  leaps  into  the  golden  sea,  crying,  "  Fair  sis. 
ters,  I  come."  Then  Orpheus  crashed  his  cunning  hand 
across  the  lyre,  his  great  sweet  voice  gushed  out  and  rang 
across  the  decks.  Of  high  endeavor  and  loyal  courage,  of 
the  glory  of  battle,  of  the  splendor  of  endurance,  he  sang. 
He  poured  noble  great-hearted  purpose  into  his  hearers, 
for  he  told  of  a  purer  ideal  and  a  loftier  beauty  than  that 
of  the  sisters.  They  drive  the  oars  down  deep  and  hurl 
the  quivering  Argo  out  across  the  sea,  and  the  islands  sink 
down  in  the  horizon  and  go  out  in  the  ocean. 

"  In  that  old  pagan  tale  (as  we  style  it)  lies  truth.  It  is 
nobler,  manlier,  greater,  to  disdain  the  world  and  conquer 
its  seductions  by  devotion  to  a  supreme  beauty  than  to 
block  our  ears  with  selfish  prudence  and  eschew  temptation, 
because  it  endangers  our  gain." 

Was  it  Keyes  ?  He  had  been  known  to  speak  oracularly 
in  prayer -meeting  once  in  ten  years. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  223 

Julian  waited  for  Margaret  outside  the  church-door,  as 
he  had  used  to  do  in  his  boy-days.  She  stepped  out  upon 
the  stone  alone  and  hesitated  a  moment  before  walking 
into  the  dark.  He  came  close  to  her. 

"Margaret." 

She  started  and  cried,  "  Oh,  you!  What,  you  Julian, 
here!" 

They  moved  off  together. 

"And  how  long  do  you  stay,  Julian?  I  never  thought 
to  see  you  again.  Mr.  Gay  told  us  how  splendidly  you  were 
doing." 

"  Your  mother,  Mrs.  Ballard  ?"  Julian  queried. 

"  Oh,  mamma  is  not — she  is  sick,  so  sick,"  faltered  the 
girl. 

After  a  pause  she  went  on, 

"  But  Mrs.  Lancaster  was  glad  to  see  you,  I  can  imagine 
it.  You  haven't  told  me  yet  how  long  you  will  stay." 

"  Indefinitely." 

"  Indefinitely  ?" 

"I  am  back  to  stay,  to  remain." 

"Come  back  to  stay!  What  do  you  mean?  You  are 
joking." 

"  No,  Margaret,  I  have  come  back  to  Exmoor,  and  I  ought 
never  to  have  gone  out,"  he  answered. 

"  Julian,  I  had  hoped  you  had  gotten  over  your  foolish 
fancies.  Why  have  you  come  ?" 

"  Because,  because — you  know  the  reasons.  Books  and 
study  and  things." 

He  could  not  tell  her  the  why,  she  wouldn't  understand. 
It  suddenly  came  to  him,  her  practical  temper  and  her 
limited  sympathies. 

"Julian,  you'll  never  get  over  charging  the  windmills. 
You're  a  Don  Quixote." 

With  which  last  sentiment  Margaret  Ballard  vanishes 
from  our  story,  carrying  with  her 'a  fund  of  womanly 


224  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.^ 

qualities,  a  sound  faith,  and  heroic  loyalty.  Only,  if  she 
had  been  some  other,  another  than  her  admirable  self,  she 
might  have  grasped  this  man's  fate  and  set  it  straight  on 
its  pedestal. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  LET     US      HEAR      THE      CONCLUSION      OF      THE       WHOLE 
MATTER." 

MONDAY  morning— a  world  of  disillusion.  The  smell  of 
the  laundry  pervasive,  a  breakfast  of  meagre  living,  Pro 
fessor  Clyde  in  a  brown  study  impatient  to  be  gone  to  his 
lecture,  Mrs.  Lancaster  in  an  every-day  countrywoman's 
attire,  the  cold  fog  curtaining  the  windows,  the  insufficient 
heat  of  the  low  furnace-fire — disagreeables. 

Ah,  what  a  fool  he  was,  what  a  perfect  ass !  As  if  it 
were  for  him  to  plant  himself  firmly  on  his  instincts,  as 
Emerson  entreated,  and  let  the  huge  world  swing  round  to 
him  !  for  him  to  essay — the  uncertain  fluctuating  nature 
never  decided  on  anything,  never  sure  in  deed  or  faith, 
never  ready  to  acknowledge  any  instinct  as  paramount  over 
his  life;  always  a  donkey  between  hay  and  straw  and  deliber 
ating  forever !  Pshaw !  what  possessed  him  to  imagine  life 
packed  with  great  contents,  or  he  himself  as  worthy  to  be 
aught  but  a  breadwinner  with  the  others  ?  Let  him  not 
deceive  himself  with  wind,  or  delight  his  eye  with  vain  re 
flections  and  unsubstantial  rainbows.  He  was  no  genius, 
in  the  first  place,  though  there  was  great  doubt  if  anything 
more  than  successes  ever  existed  in  reality.  Common-sense 
and  practical  reason  told  him  to  come  off  his  high  horse, 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.       225 

get  down  to  reality,  drudgery  and   dollars  ;    desist  from 
fool-ideals  and  Don  Quioxte  windmill-hammering. 

After  breakfast  he  went  into  the  library.  It  was  filled 
with  a  numb  warmth,  that  curdled  the  chill  blood  and  pro 
voked  a  dull  discomfort.  What  should  he  do  to  pass  the 
morning  ?  The  sensation  of  empty  time  ahead  of  him  was 
unusual  and  not  agreeable.  New  York  had  for  a  year  and 
a  half  crowded  his  hours  with  work  and  enjoyment.  He 
had  forgotten  how  to  meditate  as  of  old.  He  flung  himself 
down  with  a  book,  then  he  flung  the  book  down.  He 
looked  out  on  the  forbidding  winter  and  then  he  strode 
about.  He  kicked  the  waste-basket  under  the  table  and 
cursed.  He  demanded  sensation  of  some  sort  to  make  him 
act,  to  make  him  think.  He  was  no  longer  the  Julian 
Clyde  of  Exmoor  monastery.  He  was  like  the  habitual 
coffee-drinker,  who  is  stupid  until  he  drinks  his  morning 
cup.  He  needed  the  streets  of  New  York,  the  pressure  of 
men,  the  tide  of  business,  the  whirl  of  life.  Pure  contem 
plation  was  forever  lost  to  him ;  he  demanded  excess. 

He  had  been  baptized  in  his  age.  He  had  acquired  its 
genius.  He  denied  all  things,  all  things  save  money.  He 
desired  all  things,  he  enjoyed  none.  He  had  the  imperious 
necessity  to  feel,  but  he  could  have  no  feeling.  This 
morning  in  Exmoor  he  descended  into  scepticism  as  far  as 
yesterday  he  had  ascended  into  belief  and  love.  He  turned 
upon  everything  the  Mephistophelian  eye,  and  it  was  all 
ridiculous  or  windy,  veriest  vanity.  He  came  to  the  win 
dow,  pressing  his  forehead  against  a  pane.  What  should 
he  do  in  the  world  ?  There  was  nothing  to  fight  for; 
liberty  was  won  and  crowns  were  out  of  the  question,  re 
ligion  was  a  relic,  and  honor  laurelled  mouthers  and  praters, 
demagogues  and  jolly  good  fellows.  Learning, — ah,  he  knew 
enough  to  know  what  a  four-pronged  skeleton  of  dry  bones 
it  was.  As  for  culture,  everybody  was  cultured,  even  Man- 
cutt.  There  wasn't  a  single  ideal  to  defend  or  proclaim, 


226  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

nor  a  single  glory  worthy  a  man's  life.  The  only  possible 
career  was  the  gold-maker's;  that  came  back  to  him  with 
intense  significance.  America  had  so  constituted  society 
as  to  erect  barriers  across  the  entrance  to  every  noble  career; 
in  politics,  in  art,  in  everything,  save  money-winning. 
She  had  an  almighty  partiality  for  the  commonplace. 

And  was  he  worth  anything  more  than  to  pursue  the 
commonplace  ?  He  felt  an  utter  doubt  of  his  own  •  capa 
city  for  higher  things.  Bah !  were  there  any  higher  things  ? 
Of  course  not.  All  worth  a  man's  while  was  to  go 
in,  fight,  grasp  the  hard  substantiate,  and  enjoy  the  real 
sense-realities,  success,  women,  dinners,  ostentation,  pride. 
He  was  altogether  sceptical  about  the  grounds  for  the  ex 
istence  of  beauty  or  truth.  Phenomena,  things,  facts,  were 
the  only  existences. 

He  felt  tremendously  bored.     He  wanted  Wall  Street. 

In  the  afternoon  he  went  out  and  walked  about  the  Hill 
and  down  through  the  town.  How  desolate  was  that  winter 
landscape,  and  how  forlorn  the  great  barren  bulks  of  hills  ! 
They  had  cut  down  the  great  oaks  Keyes  and  he  had 
talked  under  so  often;  they  were  setting  the  cellar  of  Gay 
Theological  Hall  where  the  old  roots  had  twisted.  He  dis 
covered  new  paths  about  the  college  and  new  faces  on  them. 
The  change  made  him  impatient.  He  found  a  transforma 
tion  in  the  village.  There  were  new  Queen  Anne  and 
other  modern  fantastic  gimcracks  of  houses,  breaking  in 
the  old  severe  and  stately  range.  Rich  farmers  had  moved 
in  and  Philistine  manufacturers  had  floated  in,  with  the 
boom.  Gay  himself  was  building  a  summer-palace  on  a 
wooded  knoll  just  below  the  college — for  Mrs.  Ballard's 
occupancy,  gossip  had  whispered  three  months  ago.  Two 
new  streets  had  been  cut  through,  looking  like  raw  wounds. 
There  was  a  bustle  in  the  business  end  and  more  stores. 
New  flaunting  grocery  wagons  paraded  the  streets.  The 
town  was  being  awakened,  revived,  and  all  owing  to  one 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE.  227 

man's  energy.  Julian  heard  that  the  town-council  seri 
ously  discussed  a  change  of  name  to  Gayville  or  Gayburgh. 
Would  not  Keyes  curse  and  proclaim  that  the  Vandals  had 
at  last  broken  in  ?  How  the  critic  must  hate  the  million 
aire! 

Julian  went  to  the  critic's  house.  He  saw  Mrs.  Keyes, 
as  placid  and  portentous  as  of  old,  who  said  Mr.  Keyes 
was  not  at  home.  Would  Julian  come  in  ?  Hardly  had 
he  seated  himself,  before  the  critic's  slouching  figure  in 
great-coat,  and  seal  cap  set  like  a  Cossack's,  slipped  in.  He 
circled  all  about  Julian,  tiptoeing  a  dance  of  welcome  and 
delight,  as  it  were.  They  talked  of  commonplace  things. 
Julian  said  he  should  go  back  in  a  few  days.  He  liked 
Keyes,  but  the  critic  was  certainly  more  peculiar  than 
ever.  But  then  he  was  not  a  New  Yorker. 

Julian  left  shortly. 

On  the  way  home  he  met  President  Pompes,  who  was 
cordiality  incarnate.  Was  it  true,  as  rumor  had  it,  that 
Julian  was  back  for  good?  Julian  detected  the  glint  of 
satisfaction  in  the  President's  eye.  "He  thinks  I've  failed 
and  have  come  back." 

"  Oh,  no  indeed.  I  go  back  to-morrow,  or  Wednesday. 
Mr.  Gay  could  not  spare  me  longer.  I  don't  think  I  could 
ever  be  content  to  leave  New  York." 

The  President  acquiesced,  a  little  discomfited,  and,  after 
many  words,  passed  on. 

Julian  went  up  the  hill.     A  telegram  awaited  him: 

"  Saxton  died  this  morning.    Come  at  once.    MANCUTT." 

He  ate  his  supper,  packed  his  bag  and  sat  with  his  father 
and  Mrs.  Lancaster  until  eleven  o'clock.  He  meant  to 
leave  on  the  midnight  accommodation  for  Spriugfield. 

Saxton  dead  !  Poor  fellow  ! — but  he  was  a  weakly  sort  of 
man. 

The  charm  of  Exmoor  had  gone.  Her  people  seemed 
different  and  Gay  was  tearing  open  her  countenance.  Mrs 


228  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  MILLIONAIRE. 

Ballard  was  stricken — a  fitting  end.  Let  the  candle  of  her 
unhappy  fate  go  out.  It  would  have  been  better  if  she  had 
not  been  caged. 

He  never  would  be  caged. 

A  sullen  anger  at  the  order  of  Fate,  at  the  world  and  its 
way,  at  God  and  his  decrees,  smouldered  within  him.  He 
would  avenge  his  slain  ideals  on  the  world  that  sneered 
them  out.  He  hated  it  all.  He  would  go  down  to  New 
York  and  flatter  Mancutt  and  fool  him  ;  model  himself  on 
the  millionaire  and  get  out  of  him  all  he  could.  He  would 
capture  Vivian,  marry  her  money  and  crush  her  self-con 
gratulation. 

For  it  all  became  clear  to  him.  Man  is  set  in  a  world  of 
time  which  he  must  somehow  fill  up — he  eats,  he  sleeps,  he 
loves,  the  coarser  sort  get  drunk,  the  more  virile  plunge 
into  work,  but  all  avoid  the  reflection  of  the  truth;  they 
would  cheat  themselves  and  think  themselves  beautiful  and 
powerful,  not  the  unvailing  Yahoos  that  they  are.  He 
understood  why  Keyes  grasped  at  all  people  to  talk  to  and 
would  not  let  them  go;  he  wished  to  fill  up  time.  The 
moonlight  of  sentiment  and  romance  and  beauty  had 
shifted  off  the  world  for  him  and  he  saw  it  as  it  was,  ugly, 
stale,  unprofitable,  flat. 

He  was  relieved  when  train-time  came.  It  was  prosaic 
work  to  sit  there  with  an  old-fogy  professor  and  a  strait- 
laced  widow. 

Julian  Clyde  returned  to  New  York  disenchanted  and 
"settled  down,"  determined  to  plough  to  success  and 
achieve  the  only  American  distinction,  millionairedom. 

He  had  left  his  ideals  in  the  house  of  his  boyhood. 


THE  END. 


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